


soul friends

by KyberHearts



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alchemy, Alkahestry, Canon Compliant, Chinese Culture, Dueling, Festivals, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minimal Profanity, Post-Canon, Reunions, Romance (if you look for it), Sibling Bonding, Symbolism, Traditions, Trans Male Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-03-30 16:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 61,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13955046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/KyberHearts
Summary: “They were not always, and simply, two minds in one body. Towards the latter part of their alliance, especially in the heat of battle and warmongering, their souls could not distinguish where the prince began and the sin ended.”Ling Yao returns to Xing to seal his fate as the next Emperor and sets his plans for reunification and peace in motion.Elsewhere, Alphonse Elric reconciles with the very Truth that stole his body.





	1. Return to Xing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, I've found myself in love with FMA: Brotherhood.
> 
> In this fic, Ling Yao is a trans guy. I'm a cis gal. Please, please let me know if I portrayed anything incorrectly, and how I can write better!

When the thin, gangly boy in dusty robes emerges from the desert bearing ridiculous tales worthy of being legends, no one knows what to think, except that he couldn’t possibly be an heir to the throne.

Everyone knows that the Yao royal candidate had disappeared almost three years ago. News roamed the flat lands and the crop terraces, all the way to the gilded throne of the Emperor. Most saw the absence as the perfect way to reduce the Yao’s chances for ascension. One less child, one less sibling in the competition.

Very few believed in the rice-paper promise left behind to explain Ling Yao’s decision to leave. It was the very same promise that kept the clan’s reputation from snapping like a brittle twig in winter; a promise to bring the elixir of immortality back home.

Even with the stranger facing the tips of steel javelins, the clansmen warily note there’s something familiar about his dark eyes and speech mannerisms. That cunning smirk is enough to entertain the _idea_ that this roguish imposter is, in fact Ling Yao, child of the Emperor. And because the clan believes in hospitality before execution, they sit him down in a jail cell and begin the lengthy process of confirming his identity.

Various documents with Imperial seals and subtle jade emblems exchange hands over the next few hours, then follows an intense interrogation of childhood memories and experiences. When the look in his eyes changes from resignation to exasperation, he divulges clandestine, political secrets that turn the leaders pasty and pale.

 _Enough,_ he says finally in a firm tone. _I have answered enough questions. I am Ling Yao. I am the twelfth crown_ prince _of the Emperor, and I will stake my claim to the throne. I will have the respect I deserve. Now I will return home and pay respects to my guardian._

While the funeral rites are being prepared, he stalks the clan lands, reaffirming his presence and status. Ling expects uproar and dissonance; but it seems three years is just enough for people to recognize the change in the air. Confusion melts along with previous assumptions of their liege, and it is not long before the people bow before him. They murmur titles which only bolster his confidence:

 _Crown Prince. Master Ling. Young Lord_.

Lan Fan is there with him, hiding in his shadow as her large black eyes always watching for deception.

“You were always a prince,” Lan Fan whispers from the eaves of the roof as the royal drapes himself across the balcony, skimming the horizon curiously. She had said the same words during their initial journey across the desert, when she and her grandfather pledged an allegiance to his life and name.

Ling glances upwards to her petite silhouette. “The rest of Xing will recognize me. We’ll make sure of it.”

His bodyguard seems to have a more difficult time adjusting to the clan attitudes. Lan Fan returns with not only the corpse of her respected grandfather, but an automail sleeve that implies failure to uphold her duty. She would have gladly, and swiftly, accepted the judgement that lines an executioner’s blade-- if it weren’t for a rather impetuous prince.

Ling drags her away from the alternate fate, none too kindly. _I won’t lose you too,_ he snarls. He shoves her mask back into her trembling, mismatched hands, and jabs a finger at the _yin_ symbol. Its other half, the _yang_ , is meant to be buried with Fu and his mask. _Both you and your grandfather risked everything to follow me. Now you have to represent him. You have shown your worth when fighting against monsters and magicians. Now prove your courage in the court. Prove it to me._

Shivering under the gaze of her liege, Lan Fan dons the mask once more.

Then there’s the matter of the warrior princess May Chang, who bristles at the rival clansmen and turns her nose at every attempt to drive her away. With no less than six assassination attempts on the young girl, and May’s own fading trust in the prince, Ling at last makes his stand at the official homecoming feast. He invites her to sit next to him, and makes the first public declaration to reunify Xing. There is disarray and outrage, and the young prince is swamped with letters, scoldings, and blades with his name written on them.

Days later, and in the privacy of a beautiful, flowering garden, Ling makes a promise to his half-sister. She is unwilling to believe that he would risk it all for the sake of the clans; it is difficult to completely erase the inherited mistrust between their families. But he merely smiles and says, _Don’t be afraid. Once I’ve spoken with the Emperor, the people will have to recognize the change._

It helps that not everyone is opposed to peace; the spark of hope among the people is enough for Ling to redouble his petitions in court.

On the eve of Fu’s funeral, Ling receives permission to travel to the sovereign capital. For his retainer’s sake and under the guise of finishing the last of his appeals, they remain for the rites and procession entreated to the old man. Ling stonily (publicly) recognizes him as a sacrifice; an honored responsibility. Only a handful of people know how the then-immortal screamed and wailed and raged in protest of death.

But the Xingese prince is not supposed to cry in front of his clansmen, and so he lights the incense without shedding a tear.

“Will the little beansprout be accompanying us to the capital?” Lan Fan’s silhouette asks, once Ling is back to the comfort and security of his home. Their robes smell like smoke and sandalwood, and their moods are grim.

“Yes. She bears witness to the events in Amestris,” says Ling, as he unties his hair and allows the tension of the day to drift away. “Also, she is able to unlock the powers of the Stone. I can hardly go to the Emperor and declare that this vial of liquid is the secret to immortality without a show of ability.”

Not for the first time since his homecoming, Ling reaches into his coat pocket and tentatively curls his hand around the small vial of immortality. The Philosopher’s Stone is warm to the touch, and though Ling keeps it near at all times, it makes others who sense _chi_ , including Lan Fan and May Chan, restless. The red liquid holds enough allure to ridicule the threat of death to traitors. The power is alluring, though some testify it has the underlying sensation of writhing souls without understanding _why_.

The masked bodyguard had once asked if the _chi_ of the trapped souls would disturb the young lord.

But Ling sleeps soundly.

It’s not the question of whether Ling can sense the energy: being well-versed with martial arts and academics, the crown prince would naturally be inclined to recognize the flow of _chi_ both in people and in the land. But the Philosopher’s Stone and its aura emboldens the memory of being trapped in his consciousness, face-to-face in a limitless space with a self-proclaimed sin.

He feels empty; he is a lonely soul in a body that used to house thousands.

* * *

Neither Ling Yao nor May Chang have ever seen their father in person.

Any personal audience with the Emperor, like an alchemist’s transmutation, often demands a toll of consequence. They are not the first children to be invited for an audit, but they must convince the Emperor that he need not consider other heirs to the throne besides Ling Yao. As far as the clan leaders presume, there is no greater claim to Xing than the Philosopher’s Stone.

They are treated no differently than non-blood related clan leaders-- Xing hospitality grants them a place to sleep, food, freedom to roam the palace grounds, and an entourage which the two siblings respectfully refuse. They will only trust the blades at their back.

In preparation, Ling and May reunite in the recluse of his private room and sit on the ground, with Lan Fan at the door.

Lan Fan’s black eyes track the way the young prince extracts the red vial from his coat and offers it to May. The bodyguard understands why May’s presence is necessary at the court, as the Chang princess is the only person they can trust with regards to manipulating the Stone’s power. Nonetheless, the sheathed kunai sings and waits for an opportunity which never comes.

“All right, warrior princess,” Ling says, clicking his tongue. “Tell me once more, and slowly.”

May’s small hands cradle the vial, and for a moment, the crimson light reflects the deep, beautiful brown in her eyes.

Then the princess sighs. “The Philosopher’s Stone, like Amestris alchemy, allows one to manipulate matter easily. But Xing alkahestry focuses on redirecting the flow of _chi_. With enough time, we might be able to find a link between the Stone’s ability to work beyond limitations and influence a person’s life energy for immortality.”

Ling frowns. “So who can use the Stone?”

“Alchemists who channel the energy to suit their own purpose. When I taught Alphonse about the Dragon’s Pulse, he told me about how alchemists use the power of the moving earth and the components of objects. Iron. Copper. Hydrogen-- oi, Ling Yao,” May snaps. His eyes have glazed over, as they usually do when there’s talk of alchemy and science. “Pay attention.”

“Okay, okay. So people who use alkahestry can’t use the power.”

“Not all. ” May tightens her hold on the bottle, and her eyes narrow. “You allowed me to practice alchemy with the Stone. But we don’t want to use up all of its power before you see the Emperor.”

Ling reaches out and gingerly takes back the vial, thinking she might shatter it with her brute, petite strength.  “It’s a liquid right now. What if we put it in a broth and let him drink the Stone?” He studies the sloshing red elixir, then shakes his head. “No. There is no one dominant soul in here. It would probably ruin his mind, and then we’d lose everything.”

“Was it hard to fight to remain aware when you had the Homunculus’s Stone?” May Chang asks.

Ling smiles, and ruffles May’s hair much to her indignation. “No, no. We existed together. There were many souls, but only we two were in control.”

She crosses her arms and looks away. “I suppose it was because you invited him, dumbass.”

“Yes, I suppose.” The young prince props up his chin with a hand and glances over to the door. “Lan Fan. What happens to all the heirs who don’t produce a suitable toll to rule over Xing?”

The masked girl tilts her head, still half-listening to the kunai’s appeal. “Most are sent away to their clans and are not offered another chance at the throne,” Lan Fan says coolly. “Others have blasphemed enough to warrant an investigation for false claims, then are stripped of their status, and exiled. And then there are one or two cases of an attempted assassination to forcibly claim the throne.”

“Have there any been successful coups?”

“None, sire.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” Ling turns to May. “When the time comes, will you be able to show off what you have practiced?” She nods. The girl wields such a fierce and determined expression, and Ling can’t help but smile again. “Good.”

“Ling?”

For a brief second, there is a glimpse of worry behind the proud look on her face.

“Yes, May?”

“Do you intend on giving the Emperor the knowledge on how to make a Philosopher’s Stone?” May clutches the ends of her sleeves, unknowingly or indifferently wrinkling the fine fabric.

Ling glances over to Lan Fan, who nods, just barely. “What do you think, little sister?” he says, switching his dark gaze back to her.

“I think that the Emperor does not care about how many lives were sacrificed for the Stone,” May Chang says after a moment’s hesitation, “as long as it does as intended.” Her knuckles whiten against the pale pink sleeve. “As long as he gains immortality.”

The crown prince’s smile twists into something like a grimace. “Tch. Nothing is truly immortal. We know this first hand, don’t we?” He waves a hand at her. “Go now. We’ll see you tomorrow. Lan Fan?”

“This way, little beansprout,” says Lan Fan, thankful that the mask hides her self-indulgent smile. She pushes open the door and waits to escort May Chan. The girl stands as tall as she can be and follows the retainer back to her private quarters, where she will be guarded as fiercely as her brother.

When Lan Fan slips back to her lord’s room to await further orders, she stops and stares wearily at the young prince.

“Lan Fan.” Ling is lying on the floor with his limbs splayed out like a star. His eyes are closed, like he’s in deep thought but his voice is filled with mirth. “Lan Fan,” he announces cheerfully. “Come over here and sit by me. And take off that mask.”

She obeys: stripped of her anonymity, the retainer walks over silently, then sits cross-legged at a respectable distance. Lan Fan thinks that the deep red carpet, not unlike the Stone, does well to compliment the Yao clan colors of soft yellow and blinding white. His long hair winds against the ground, like a river from birdeye’s view.

“Any noteworthy to report? What does the capital gossip about?”

“Tomorrow’s presentation is a public affair,” says Lan Fan, brushing hair from her face, “and most of the people intend to watch what the Philosopher’s Stone can accomplish. Security will be increased for your lordship and the beansprout, but it means your warriors will be outnumbered to the palace guards.”

“It’s for all the citizens to attend?”

“Yes. Even leaders from other clans are planning to make an attendance.” She idly runs a hand over her automail: a threatening gesture to some, though a sign of pensive thinking to those like Ling. “Previous presentations to the Emperor were not made public.”

“Why do you think this is different?”

“Given the reports about what happened in Amestris, and your travels and reports, perhaps the court is willing to grant you a large audience.”

“The greater the claim,” Ling mutters, “the greater chance I have to fail in front of all of Xing’s witnesses.”

Lan Fan cants her gaze elsewhere-- the ceiling, the curtains, the flickering gaslights on the ornate walls. “Your success rests on the little one. May Chan.”

There is a question resting behind the statement, a question Lan Fan knows she is unable to ask but knows the lordship will be able to answer anyways.

“She will do fine,” Ling says softly yet firmly. “May is doing this for her clan, as well for the sake of Xing. It does not benefit either of us to fail.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Lan Fan, I have one more question to ask.” Ling opens his dark eyes. He shifts to glance over at his bodyguard, who sits more attentively and confidently now that she’s under his gaze. “How does one’s _chi_ change during the course of their life?”

“Our bodies work to align energies so we can function day-to-day. Factors like overwork, exhaustion, and disease tip the delicate balance and disrupt the _chi_.” Lan Fan leans forward worriedly. “Is the young lord feeling well?”

Ling chuckles. “Thank you for your concern. Perhaps a little more tired as of late. But it is to be expected due to the events of Amestris, the journey home, and the audience with the Emperor.”

Lan Fan nonetheless reaches out to the familiar radiance from her liege’s soul and searches for any sort of disconnect. She does this without permission, knowing it stands with the responsibility of making sure Ling is healthy and unharmed, physically and mentally. Anyways, it’s as simple as breathing: she has worked for the Yao clan long enough to be able to pluck his presence in the middle of a crowd.

In private conference with her grandfather, they once haphazardly concluded that _Yes, the crown prince has a soul of_ promise _._

It’s not easy to describe energies, much less define them.

“Your _chi_ does appear to be faded,” Lan Fan says, brow furrowed, “but these past weeks have been strenuous. It is to be expected. Otherwise, your honorable presence is the same as before.”

“Before what? Amestris?”

“I meant the Homunculus. There is no more trace of the sin.” There is no hiding the immense relief in her voice.

When she opens her eyes, Lan Fan is surprised to see that Ling is beaming. “What a relief,” he says, dispassionate and nonchalant about the times when he’d grieved for the loss of an ally. “Can you imagine if we, two minds in one body, ruled all of Xing? We would clash all the time.”

“Yes, my lord,” she says, smiling gently.

Ling groans and pushes himself up into a sitting position. “That will be all, Lan Fan. Thank you.”

* * *

It is well into the nighttime, but Ling Yao lies awake in the darkness with his thoughts racing. He wonders how many of his siblings have slept in this very same bed. He wishes that open windows didn't promote assassination attempts. Even so, Lan Fan or someone in her stead is awake elsewhere and watches for the first sign of trouble.

Ling collapses back against the blankets, struggling to breathe in the stifling heat. He shucks off his nightclothes and curls up, shivering against the sleek sheets.

Then he plucks the Philosopher’s Stone from its hiding place under the pillows, rolling the vial between his palms. He holds it up in the air to examine. The color traps whatever moonlight filters through the curtains and illuminates the viscous, vicious liquid. It is rank with the energy of trapped souls.

And it does not bother him.

 _Is this how soldiers fight during times of war?_ Ling thinks to himself. _Devastated by the loss of life to the point of exhaustion, and then acceptance?_ It is the attitude among various allies in the West, notably State Alchemists and war veterans who did not shie from the battlefield.

He imagines the Xing emperor grabbing the elixir from his hands and in one fell swoop, the emperor would drink souls murdered for the very force that kept them alive. It seems horrifying to imagine such, and then Ling tightens his hold on the vial. It was exactly what he had done in the underground laboratory. It was a harrowing few months, sure, but he does not regret his decision.

What frightens him most in the aftermath of Amestris was whether or not he was broken.

Ling doesn’t remember when he learned that the Stone was made out of souls. Before he demanded immortality from the golden-haired man, or after? Or when he was encased in a mind that used to be solely his, surrounded by tortured faces? Surely an experience like that would have left a lasting effect?

However, Lan Fan reassured him that his _chi_ was the same as ever. There were no missing pieces to his soul. Nothing of importance was gone--

 _Then why,_ Ling thinks, scrunching his eyes tight, _why does he feel different?_

If he were anything other than a prince, or a responsibility, he would talk a little more freely with Lan Fan. If he was anywhere else but the heart of Xing, he would confess everything haunting detail: the clans, the Emperor, the Stone, or Stones, Amestris, power, politics, and everything else that makes him unable to sleep.

_Can you imagine if we, two minds in one body, ruled all of Xing?_

Ling scowls. That was supposed to be the plan. Imagine having the confidence of a two-hundred year old being. Greed had indisputable experience of being a charismatic, unquestioned leader.

That was what Greed had promised, and now Ling is able to ridicule the idea. Of course, others would lament at the truth: how Ling clung to the Homunuculus in his last moments and refused to let go. He had risked his life and his pledge to the Yao clan for the sake of a sin, who didn’t even survive to see victory.

Greed didn’t have to leave Ling. They could have fought together. They could have--

He closes his eyes.

Ling misses the avaricious company.

When Greed was ripped out of his veins, Ling believes he lost more than just a friend. They were not always, and simply, two minds in one body. Towards the latter part of their alliance, especially in the heat of battle and warmongering, their souls could not distinguish where the prince began and the sin ended.

Now he’s not sure if his _chi_ still belongs to him, and him alone.

The warmth of the Stone in his hand pulses, gently reminding him of the daunting task at hand. Dawn is hours away, and the day will decide whether or not he can reanimate Xing as a peaceful, prosperous country where children do not demand their siblings’ deaths.

Now is not the time to think about Homunculi and fragmented souls.

* * *

“Hold your head high,” the prince tells his reflection as he adjusts his delicately woven scarf. “And they will do no harm.”

He’s donned in traditional Yao colors, proud to show off his kinship with one of the more powerful clans in Xing. While he misses wearing a sword at his side, Ling reassures himself that even an unarmed king has soldiers at his beck and call.

“Sire?” Lan Fan’s voice sounds from outside. “Are you almost ready to go?”

“Yes, just almost.” Ling picks up one of the silver white ribbons and smooths back his hair.

“There is a petition on stand-by to refuse your presence.”

“Already?”

“It is heralded by one of your siblings.”

Ling picks up a small box with the Stone safely inside, takes one more glance at his reflection, and then steps outside the bedroom. Lan Fan immediately falls in step with him and they wind through the hallways towards May’s room. Unlike Ling, the bodyguard elected to remain in her standard uniform, and the sight of her dark gray robes and intimidating mask calms his nerves.

“Do you have a copy of the petition?” Ling asks. Tucking the chest in the crook of his arm, he manages to unfurl the paper and scan its contents. “Hmm. ‘The crown prince who claims to be Ling Yao… holds no contest in the court… as memory serves, Xing remembers the Yao heir…’ Are there any more appeals like this?”

“None, sire. The rest of the clans seem willing to let the audience happen without written opposition.” They reach May Chan’s quarters, and while they wait, Lan Fan crosses her arms. “Do you intend on reprimanding the clan?”

He laughs at the suggestion, easing some tension in the palace already heavy with anticipation. “I do,” Ling says, “though there are better ways than scolding a child. Especially when we’ve been invited to the palace by the Emperor himself. Do you understand?”

“You plan to use the clan’s intentions against them.” Lan Fan nods. “Make it so that they question the Emperor’s authority. But it still brings the issue--”

“I know,” Ling interrupts, eyes suddenly soft. His voice turns mellows, too. “I know.”

Lan Fan lowers her head. “My lord--”

The bedroom door cracks open and May Chang appears, tugging at the scarves of her clan. With her home located between quiet valleys and serene rice fields, it’s only appropriate that her robes mimic the gentler side of nature; her dress and scarves and dyed in the colors of peonies and cherry blossoms. May even has an array of flowers woven in her braids.

“Where’s your little bodyguard, May?” Ling asks.

“Here.” May points at one of the many scarves that wrap around her shoulders. Curled among the pink fabric, Shao Mei yawns and displays an impressive array of sharp teeth-- all made less terrifying as she easily fits in the palm of Ling’s hand. “Lan Fan, will she be able to stay with you during the presentation?”

“Of course, princess,” says Lan Fan, and extends a metal hand. The panda leaps to the retainer’s automail arm and then huddles in the cowl of her hood. Lan Fan doesn’t seem willing to pursue what she wanted to say to Ling, but the prince does not insist nor push. He knows that she will speak when she’s comfortable.

“You called me ‘princess’,” May Chang mumbles incredulously.

“As you are, especially today, little beansprout. The young lord’s habit of calling you ‘warrior princess’ must have inspired me,” Lan Fan says, a smile hiding behind her mask.

She steps back and gestures to the rest of the guards waiting to escort them to the main courtroom, where they will likely sit for hours until the Emperor is amused enough to appreciate their presence. The guard’s masks are colors of white and black, emotionless, and it pains Ling not to see Fu’s mask.

The courtroom-- also dubbed as the Emperor’s waiting room-- is large enough to house representatives from fifty clans, and additional delegates from outside countries. Most of the area is in an outside setting, thanks to the capital’s consistent, calm weather. There are specially designed doors that can fold and halve the room and its audience at the palace’s behest.

Today, those doors are thrown wide open and there are hundreds of people already waiting for them, fanning themselves in the morning heat.

A simple, natural stream slices through the multi-patterned floors and distinguishes the separation between the Emperor’s seat and his audience, and the public. The river is a clear, distinct symbol; it shows that even nature demands a divide between the ruler of Xing and the rest of his country.

Ling’s eyes search the waters for any signs of wildlife as the guard bring him and May to kneel before the brilliant throne. He feels the young princess trembling at his side. He remembers: it’s her first time in such a royal, public situation. Ling nudges her gently with his elbow.

“You’ve survived worse than this,” he whispers to her. “Don’t fret.”

“I’m not scared,” May hisses back.

“All right.”

“I’m not!” She glances at the scroll that Ling is still holding. “What’s that?”

“It’s a petition claiming that I’m not the royal prince.” He fiddles with the broken seal, debating whether or not to read it again. Then May snatches the scroll and starts to scan the words herself. Ling wants to smile to hide the stabbing discomfort in his heart and mind and soul. “These are words of a clan that does not want to understand who I am.”

May reads quickly, and her expression darkens as she reaches the end of the appeal. Ling laughs awkwardly and gently pets one of the soft flowers in her hair. She barely notices.

“Listen, May, it shouldn’t affect you--”

Ling stutters into silence as May starts to tear the scroll into tiny pieces. The ripping noise is insignificant compared to the rest of the audience’s chatter but is as loud as cannon fire to Ling. She flashes a furious look towards the public, seeking the certain colors of the offending clan.

May Chang flings the paper shreds into the river that encircles the courtroom. Before long, the current sweeps away the delicate paper and it is out of sight. Ling watches in stunned awe and surprise. “I can’t believe they would be so rude to even assume-- or try to present this to the Emperor-- how _dare_ \--” she seethes, clenching her fists.

“Hey, hey,” Ling says, reaching out and grasping her hand. “We’re still in the middle of a palace. We can’t go looking for a fight.”

“But--”

“Believe me, given the opportunity, I would do everything in my power to challenge them.” He sighs. “The fact remains that we are children of the Emperor and we have the right to the throne. We are not here today to argue whether or not I’m a prince or a princess, a son or a daughter.”

“There shouldn’t have to be a debate about who you are,” May says bitingly, still flashing dirty looks over her shoulder. “You are who you say you are. You’re Ling Yao. You’re a prince, and a son, and you’re my big brother.”

Ling stares at her. Some part of him is expecting jest in her youthful face, but he has no reason to fear or be wary. Her eyes are honest; her words are soft, and tender, and they pierce him with the sort of kindness he dreams wistfully about. The crown prince smiles at her. “You’re going to make me cry, little one. Thank you, May.”

No sooner does he finish talking, suddenly a court advisor draped in yellow and purple sweeps into the room. Ling and May immediately stand, as do the rest of the hundreds of people in court. The soldiers and guards draw themselves up to their full height. For a moment, the rustle of fabric stops and the people’s murmurs fade, and the only sound in the room is the soft, gurgling river.

The Emperor is keen on seeing what the Philosopher’s Stone has to offer.

Someone is speaking, perhaps the very court advisor in violet robes. He carries an air of dignity that comes from rank and respect and fear from the common people. He is speaking about Xing’s long-standing prosperity and success in maintaining peace between clans due to the Emperor’s vigilance and ability to produce heirs.

Ling doesn’t pay attention.

There is the briefest flash of red amidst the shadows pressed against the wall. His first thought is _blood_ , then he senses Lan Fan, rather than see her. Her _chi_ is like the first sip of barley tea in winter months. It scalds and it soothes at the same time.

Yes, Lan Fan has a soul of _growth_ , or that’s how Ling can barely explain such.

(It’s not easy to describe energies, much less define them.)

Lan Fan’s words, and no one else’s, ring in his head.

For three years, they took to the road and Ling took the chance to present himself as the twelfth crown prince and son of the Emperor. He armed himself with a sword, donned the traditional colors of his clan, and fought alongside his loyal retainers-- as he believed a king should.

 _You were always a prince,_ Lan Fan tells him before, during, and after the journey to the west.

The present snaps to attention and Ling, and the rest of the room, drop to their knees to bow in the honorable presence of the Emperor. He is old, and he is one person who wears a crown that demands the loyalty of fifty clans. This is power, and when surrounded by soldiers of every kind, there is no way to question his authority.

The Emperor seats himself on the throne. One by one, the people raise their heads slowly for a first look at the royal. The court advisor clears his throat.

“The Royal Emperor, Dragon of Six Winds, Spear of Four Cardinal Directions, has cordially invited two of his children to come to the capital and bestow their shared tribute as potential heirs to Xing. The court will now recognize the two candidates.” Ling tenses.

“The seventeenth royal princess of Xing, daughter of the Emperor, May of the Chang clan.”

Remembering what they had been instructed the night before, May kowtows respectfully once more., She shows no signs of nervousness or fear; only poise and courage. She takes the unique purple sash from her robe, then presents it to the Emperor, who gives a very slight, subtle nod of recognition.

“The twelfth royal prince of Xing, son of the Emperor, Ling of the Yao clan.”

Ling takes a deep breath, then bows deeply. His mind is blank; he can’t think of anything, not princes or Xing or Amestris or even Homunculi, as he reaches for his own token sash and sets it on the ground in front of him. He can barely raise his eyes in time to see his father’s dark but cloudy eyes flick over him.

And then the Emperor nods.

The two half-siblings wish that they could avert their gaze and seek each other for reassurance, but the throne demands all of the attention. Ling’s heart is pounding in his head. He can scarcely hear the court advisor ask for the presentation of the toll, the one treasure that could secure his ascension to the throne and May’s prosperity for her clan.

News of the Stone had flooded the lands for the past few days. It has already become a legend. _Being emperor of Xing is quite a bit lower than being king of the world,_ his memory whispers as Ling retrieves the gold ornate chest from his side _. But I guess it’s not too bad_.

Everyone, including the Emperor himself, crane forward for a glimpse of the warm and swirling red liquid that reminds Ling so much of his time confined with the sin. Some audience members even shiver in the onslaught of broiling, wrathful _chi_ , only confirming its unbeknownst power.

“Your Royal Highness,” Ling Yao says, holding up the vial. “From a country of alchemy and warfare, I bring to you the Philosopher’s Stone, the Elixir of Life, and its secrets of immortality.”


	2. Equivalent Exchange

Spring passes.

It is one full season since Ling Yao dared to present the stunning, enthralling idea of immortality to the Emperor of Xing. The shock and excitement diminishes, but legends are already in the making. Court advisors and tourists alike weave stories of how the prince with silky black hair courageously defended his king’s honor in foreign lands and took the Philosopher’s Stone as proof of victory.

 _He wrenched it from the hands of a dying dictator,_ whispers a citizen of the capital.

 _No, no_ , says another, whose eye and hand twitches irritably at such insolence, _he surely must have crafted it with the finest materials of rubies and corals and garnet--_

_It is made with the blood of his enemies--_

_It was unearthed from the ruins of a massacre--_

_It has unlimited power--_

\--only which a certain Chang princess is able to unlock and manipulate to her heart’s content. May had brought the unfamiliar practice of alchemy, alkahestry’s odd twin, to the heart of Xing. When the country spun the tales of the Philosopher’s Stone, it talked about how the two siblings were shrouded with crackling, crimson red light that tasted like lightning.

Soon after the presentation, which concluded with interrogating the twelfth crown prince and his intentions, Ling Yao and May Chang learned they would reside at the palace indefinitely. While the news sets them slightly on edge, they embrace the idea that the Emperor merely finds favor with them.

As they wait for final verdicts of approval or exile, they waste little time writing letters back to their respective clans. Ling and May spend more time together, more as brother and sister, than just companions. The trek across the desert did little to mend the vendetta between them, especially when rivers ran dry and tempers ran high.

“You’re an alchemist now,” Ling remarks one afternoon. They sit opposite of each other at a long writing desk, which is black and covered with the symbols of the Emperor: dragons and spears, both warrior-like emblems.

May looks up from her letters and wrinkles her nose at the remark. He laughs.

“It’s meant as a compliment.” His face lights up with an idea. “Maybe you should write to the Elric brothers and tell them about your progress with the Stone.”

“Do you think they could forgive us for using the Philosopher’s Stone?” May asks uneasily.

The crown prince carefully pours melted wax on his letter and stamps the Yao clan seal. “We are free to do whatever we wish with the Stone,” Ling says calmly, and levels his gaze with May. “If they opposed the idea of bringing such power to Xing, they surely would have stopped us. Edward and Alphonse Elric had reservations about using souls in alchemy. We do not.”

Ling also writes to the redefined government and some of its generals: Roy Mustang, his first lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, and Olivier Mira Armstrong. To the former two, he asks them to express his thanks to both Doctor Knox and Marcoh. To the latter, he write about the soldiers who lost their lives defending the gate as he did, then adds a postscript regarding their unnamed, scarred friend. Ling last saw her in the company of the Ishvalan, and he can only assume she helped define his fate. He asks General Armstrong to thank him anyways.

It is near the end of spring when Ling is finally called to the Emperor’s quarters. He and May had been frustrated by the slow-moving internal affairs; once their clans’ tedious paperwork is completed, Ling and May looked for ways to challenge themselves both physically and mentally.

The solution comes with the tranquility of a garden whose flowers have finally blossomed at end of the season. Armed with chalk, razor-sharp weapons, and the ever-constant presence of Lan Fan, they find a way to be content amidst rabid politics and blood feuds.

It takes some coaxing, but May and Lan Fan patiently learn how to tolerate each other. They are both attuned to the same yet vastly different aspects of the Dragon’s Pulse. The little alkahetrist knows more about transmutations and magic; the masked bodyguard shares her techniques regarding weapons in combat.

May watches Lan Fan draw countless, imperfect pentagrams. They are shaky and uneven, and they cover the tiles and walls of the private garden. One can hardly turn their head without seeing one of Lan Fan’s chalk circles. Eventually, the older girl takes May to the armory to be properly measured and equipped with a suitable weapon of choice. When Lan Fan isn’t drawing, she perches on the branches of a crooked cherry blossom tree, and critiques May Chang’s sloppy swordplay.

Shao Mei naps among the orchids.

Ling kindly refuses all offers to spar or learn about alkahestry. Instead, he takes one of the rusty swords from the weapon racks and practices his footwork, day in and day out. It is methodical, careful, and allows him to focus on his breathing. In his mind, he replays battles against humans and monsters alike. There had been no chance to breathe or relax when he was in Amestris. With Xing, such opportunities feel forced, what with the strict schedule of waiting, waiting, and more waiting.

But it is quiet in the garden. Ling thinks he can be content here.

Then the soldiers arrive, as they always do.

_The Emperor will see you now._

There is no time to change into more formal attire-- his presence is requested right away. “What about May Chang?” Ling asks, still hesitant.

 _Only you_.

“May,” Ling says, ignoring the guards’ looks of urgency. Shao Mei is at her heels when May runs over to him, trailing unwrapped bandages from her hands. He kneels, and pats her head comfortingly. She looks up at him. May is afraid; her brother can see it in her eyes. “I’ll be back soon, little one,” he says. “I promise.”

The Emperor lives in a stand-alone building that is adorned just as regally as the main palace. As Ling crosses the grounds, he both sees and senses disorder among the higher ranking court advisors. They hide their blotchy faces behind their sleeves, and he hears mournful wailing before they taper off abruptly.

Ling quickens his pace, and is scarcely surprised when Lan Fan falls in step with him.  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says under his breath.

“The young lord is not meant to be anywhere without his guards."

“And May?”

“She is returned to her bedchambers, and will be safe there.” She turns her head to avert meeting the gaze of onlookers. “Do you feel that? The _chi_ of the people?”

 _The Emperor is unwell, his health has worsened since your arrival, he is in desperate need of the Philosopher’s Stone_ , is all that echoes in Ling’s head as he searches for the warmth of the vial in his pocket. These are not his words; they are the voices of the Xing, and they demand his loyalty.

He and Lan Fan are eventually deposited at the entrance of the Emperor’s quarters, and they wait for his invitation. Ling still has no explanation for why he is being summoned. Is it to finally wrestle the Stone from his hands? Or discipline for his incompetent answers in the court? Ling thinks about his letters, the Yao and Chang clans, whether he will ever see May or Lan Fan again--

“My lord,” Lan Fan whispers under her breath, “what will you do if the Emperor dies?”

Ling has made so many promises in the name of Xing’s future. What if he _is_ sent to the gallows tonight? Will the Yao and Chang clansmen suffer?

He feels metal press against his arm, soft but insistent. “My lord?”

Ling glances over to Lan Fan, who quickly retracts her hand. “I apologize. I’m thinking about too many things.” He pauses. “If anything is to happen to me, I want you to look after May Chang.”

“I am in service of the young lord, and the Yao clan,” Lan Fan insists, shaking her head.

“Lan Fan, you _know_ May doesn’t have the privilege of bodyguards, save for the panda. If I am to be disgraced and exiled, then the rest of the Yao clan will suffer the shame, too. And it will not cease until the Emperor sires another child. It then raises the issue of whether another Yao heir is possible, given his ailing health.”

She still wavers.

“You are sworn to protect me,” Ling says. “And I will have you protect May Chang in my stead, no matter what. Is that clear?”

Lan Fan is a stubborn individual, they both know this. She can be fiercely loyal to a fault, but at the moment, Ling is not thinking about himself.

The doors open, and someone gestures for Ling to enter. He does not move a muscle.

“Lan Fan, is that _clear_?"

She closes her dark eyes. “Yes.”

And she keeps her eyes shut, burning the memory of the young lord into her mind. Lan Fan does not see him smile sadly, or how he puts his hand in the pocket to toy with the Stone again. She does not watch him walk into the Emperor’s home with his head held up high, and she does not know when she will see him again.

* * *

“Are you feeling well, sire?”

“It is not time to worry about illnesses.”

A rattling cough echoes throughout the warm, small bedroom. The candles and gaslights’ flames are full and steady. Ling shivers, nonetheless. “As you wish.”

“I do. There is much to consider.”

* * *

Summer brings wilted crops and exhausted riverbeds. The drier areas of Xing start a tremendous panic about swarming locusts, despite its last occurence being more than a decade ago. Animals and livestock alike strain to find water, and are found sulking in narrow shadows. Some feral species even risk contact with communities for a chance to sip from the well.

The Xingese people have but a day to mourn the passing of spring when the formal decrees start their nationwide impact.

The first order calls for a collective gathering of scholars and engineers to various cities. There, they were asked to consider sharing research and tactics to combat about the overwhelming heat. Free exchange of knowledge, theories, and connections is heavily emphasized, and then coaxed with the promise of government-sponsored research. Funding for building schools and laboratory, and relief for the worst of the summer’s drought arrives a few days later, as promised. Afterwards, several, similar conventions are scheduled bimonthly for the newly minted community of scientists.

The subsequent decrees focus on a vast range of topics: overpopulation in cities with too little consideration for residents, lack of access to more isolated, remote clans, advocating the construction of schools, universities, orphanages, and the list goes on and on. Xing can’t remember a time when there had been such an influx of palace interest.

 _It’s that Yao prince,_ a clan to the far west grumbles. _He must be the reason for all of this nonsense._

Most of the other clans are in agreement. They are quick to place blame on Ling Yao, for surely this philanthropic work couldn’t be by the Emperor. But the sentiment is not always tainted with anger or frustration-- the palace decrees _are_ doing something for the communities, whether the end result is minimal or fantastic.

The only drawback for the efforts for improved welfare was the discontent of individuals who disliked change for better or worse.

However, all of the scrolls are signed by the Emperor and stamped with his signature seal. There is no mistaking the authority behind the simple wax insignia.

Regardless of whether it’s the cold and distant Emperor or the wry Yao prince, change trickles through the land after the palace’s long-sustaining disregard for the common people in areas other than taxes and treason.

Then like one breath after another, summer passes its reign over to autumn.

Ling Yao takes the seasonal opportunity to spend a week back with his clansmen, and then another with the Changs. He’s curious to meet May’s extended family. His retainer is apprehensive at the idea, but it is ultimately the young lord’s choice.

“The Emperor can afford to spare us for a few days,” Ling says to Lan Fan, slinging a knapsack round his shoulder. He frowns, and then he plucks at one of her dark sleeves. “Is this chalk dust?”

Lan Fan looks down in surprise. “Yes, it seems so.”

Ling chuckles. “Practicing your pentagrams again?”

“The little beansprout is quite the insistent tutor,” Lan Fan says dryly, and his grin grows even wider. “But with regards to the trip: Yes, it will be refreshing to return home.”

“I’m sure the clan leaders have much to talk about,” he agrees, “and I would like to pay respects to Fu.”

It would be impossible to see her expression behind the mask, but Ling averts his gaze anyways. “He would be pleased to see how far you have traveled, young lord, and how much you have achieved,” Lan Fan says.

“Perhaps. I haven’t done much.” Ling shrugs. “I mean, besides eating lots of fine dinners and rich desserts. There are too many flavors in the capital, too much sweet or savory or spicy. Everything here has to be so grand. Do you ever miss plain and simple sticky rice? Margarine and toast? Sweet custard?”

Lan Fan laughs at his wistful expression. “All the time.”

The rail transport is the easiest method of traveling to all territories in Xing. For royal heirs like Ling and May, they would usually take alternative, safer routes either by automobile or river steamboats. They are, however, fortunate enough to be traveling under the Emperor’s explicit protection, and settle in one of the private cabins.

The trip, as usual, is filled with bickering and arguments.

Ling is too wired to sleep, so he flickers between reading novels and watching the scenery scroll past. Lan Fan is trying to explain the difference between certain blades, while May Chang is adamant that there is no point in distinguishing them. “One kills you before you can scream,” Lan Fan barks. “The other brings excruciating pain.”

“So you die either way,” May points out stubbornly, “and is it so important to know before you bleed out?”

“But there are unique ways to identify the wounds, see, because _this_ dagger--”

Shao Mei sleeps, oblivious, and Ling eyes the panda enviously.

The trio arrive late in the evening so only the city’s dim lamps greet them. They make their way quickly into the Yao compound and go through the traditional routine of accepting their hospitality. May Chang immediately notices the shift in their demeanor, no longer suspicious or wary. Whether this is because of Ling’s influence or the circulating stories about the Stone, she is indifferent to the reason.

With a nod from Ling, the masked Lan Fan whisks away into the darkness to find her grandfather’s grave; it makes sense she would want a private audience with his memory. She leaves behind only the whisper of automail.

As for Ling--

He takes a look around the home he’d left, twice in the pursuit of the crown. Ling is happy to be away from the palace, though for such a brief time. The _chi_ here is less demanding and overwhelming. It still wants something from him: perhaps honor, or redemption, or the desire for him to succeed. The sensation echoes in a familiar way, like in the company of good friends.

“Glad to be back,” Ling says aloud.

That night, in the dreamy terrors of a stark white landscape, Ling sees his first Gate of Truth.

* * *

“‘Nothing is truly immortal’. Do you hold fast to this belief?”

“I do.”

“What about the Emperor’s intentions to pursue the Elixir, even if he does not know the sacrifices made for such power? Do you think he is so greedy? May Chang certainly thinks so.”

“The nature of being ‘greedy’ was never said it aloud, sire.” Ling bows his head. “Of course, we knew even the palace walls listen intently to traitorous words. We will be held accountable for what is said, not what is implied.”

The old man curls his weathered hands around a drink that smells like bitter gourd. “You speak well.” He says it like it’s a simple observation, not at all a compliment. “But you did not answer your sister’s question. It has been a week since you refused to share the secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone in front of the public. Do you intend to refuse me again, in such privacy?”

Ling keeps his gaze trained on the floor. “Is the Emperor asking?”

“He must, for he is greedy.” The Emperor leans forward. “How do you make the Philosopher’s Stone?”

* * *

May Chang scrambles into the bedroom, carrying a stack of books that is half her size. “Is this enough?” she asks as she deposits the numerous, faded tomes at Ling’s bedside. “These should be about the topics like you requested. Agriculture. Ecology. Transportation.”

Ling beams. “Thank you, May,” he says, and she returns the smile. “Come and sit awhile. You must be tired from carrying those books.”

“I’m not tired.” But May hops up on the bed anyways, shifting so she doesn’t crumple the yellow and white sash she’d borrowed from the Yao clan colors. She shies away from drying ink splotches on the white bedspread. “What happened?”

He points at the panda sprawled on top of ink stained sheets of paper. “She knocked over an inkwell and ruined some drafts. I considered banishing her for such insolence, but I guessed you wouldn’t like it.”

May looks at the letter he’s writing. It’s about halfway finished. “Are you writing to Col-- General Mustang again?”

“Yes. He is looking for trade relations with Xing in the following year.” Ling tucks a lock of hair behind his ear; his hair is down, as it usually is when he’s in the comfort of his bedroom. “Even with the general pushing for open trade, Amestris is hesitant after such violence. But Mustang is hopeful that by the new year, the prospect of a new emperor will improve its chances.”

“The new year? So soon?”

Ling’s pen wavers over the fine parchment. “I am not sure,” he says. “There is no telling with the Emperor’s current health. But the main concern is that If the Emperor passes the crown along, we must assure a smooth transition of power. No coups. No revolts. We want to show the world that Xing and the Emperor alike may not be so easily toppled.”

May glances at the books she’d brought in from the Yao family’s private library. The material is old and weathered, and not meant for anything other than research. “And these books? Are they helping?”

“I believe so,” Ling replies. “You know those royal decrees that were sent out about three months ago? At the start of summer?”

“Yes.”

“It is much harder for a new ruler to pass laws, much less reinforce them. A country would grieve a king who has been in power for most or all of their lives and think less of a new person on the throne.” Ling taps his pen against the desk, only mildly disturbing the panda sleeping next to his letters. “If I could introduce laws before I was even the emperor--”

“--then the people have less to complain about,” May finishes, nodding thoughtfully. “And the Emperor agrees with this?”

“It was his idea.” Ling hums. “I wrote the decrees, and he had the authority to place a seal on them.”

Although the doors are open, it is a still and calm day. When the curtains abruptly billow and settle, Ling knows that Lan Fan has returned from her hourly rounds. “Young lord,” Lan Fan greets, “and little beansprout.”

“Hello, Lan Fan.”

“Young lord, are you feeling better?”

“I have an incredible headache, but yes, I feel better than yesterday.”

Ling shuffles the papers on his writing desk, and May Chang gently scoops up the sleeping panda in her hands to give him some room. “These letters need to be sealed and stamped,” Ling says, extending a hand to Lan Fan. “When you have a chance, I would like these to be sent as soon as possible. Come in the next hour, and I should have this final letter to Mustang completed.”

Lan Fan advances. Now that she is closer, Ling sees that her face is pale and there are dark shadows under her eyes. She takes the folded papers, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold.

Ling narrows his eyes. “Lan Fan, are you feeling well?”

“The onset of your nightmares concerns me, young lord. Before we arrived, you never had such terrible dreams.”

“They’re not so terrible. I don’t even remember them.”

Lan Fan’s shoulders tense.

And the young prince knows that he’s wrong to be so flippant, and even moreso now they are back in the midst of the Yao compound. Here, the rules that limit free speech between the bodyguard and her charge are more lax than in the capital. As long as Lan Fan keeps him safe and away from an enemy’s blade, she can say whatever is on her mind.

“This is not the time to pretend that these nightmares aren’t affecting you,” she says through gritted teeth. “If it were like a simple night terror, you would not be confined to the bed or eating medicine that calms the nerves.”

The letters slip out of Ling’s slackening grip, and Lan Fan tucks them in her robes none too kindly.

“I will deliver these letters, including the one meant for General Mustang. And then I will call the doctor and pray that you are well enough to travel to May’s clanlands.”

“But I--”

“Young lord, I will not have you risking your health for the sake of a vacation. I am confident that the rest of the Yao clan will agree with me.”

Ling scowls, and sees the corners of Lan Fan’s lips curve upwards. Yes, she’s not used to the sight of the crown prince with such an expression. “I will be mindful to watch my health,” he concedes with a sigh. He holds out the writing desk. Lan Fan takes it automatically, then she surges forward in protest as Ling throws off the sheets and swings his legs over the side.

“Sire, you _must_ rest--”

“I didn’t travel all the way back here just to be bedridden by an annoying headache,” Ling mutters. “Letters can wait. Some fresh air will do me good.” He tests his weight gingerly, then looking up, he sees both clansmen and guards suddenly at the doors and windows. Evidently hiding out of sight, watching, and making sure the to-be emperor was well.

Like Lan Fan, they look quite worried.

“May, help me.”

The warrior princess seizes one of Ling’s arms, unsure whether he’d topple over regardless. Then Lan Fan gently sets down the desk and places a careful hand on his back and hip. His arm slings around her neck and rests on the unforgivably hard automail shoulder.

“Just to the hallway, young lord,” Lan Fan mutters.

“The garden.” His leg muscles are cramping, and he winces. “Provided I am able to even leave this room.”

They slowly limp outside to greet the late afternoon sunshine. Somewhere, perhaps closer to the main city, a dog barks incessantly. Paper boys run back and forth, footsteps muffled to minimize loud, echoes throughout the halls. Several clan leaders pass by and stop and nod respectfully at the passing liege.

Lan Fan and Ling know the compound like the back of their hand: after all, it was their first home.

The garden is not as exotic as the palace’s, but there is much more space than its urban-confined counterpart. The compound designed the garden so it is complete with stone pagodas, winding bridges, and a pavilion for royal heirs or clan leaders to drink tea and talk politics.

They head over to Ling’s favorite seat: a stone bench outside the pavilion. It has a perfect view of the nearby koi pond and waterfall; the swift, calm motions of the multicolored fish never fails to amuse him. Ling sits down heavily on the stone bench, trying to hide how winded he is. Lan Fan and May kneel by the water’s edge to admire the fish.

“Everyone survived the summer,” Lan Fan remarks. She gestures to a flash of white and black, too quick for Ling. “Did you know that the compound placed a new koi to honor my grandfather?”

Ling tries in vain to spot the koi. He cannot recognize it among the others, but gathers that it lacks the usual splash of orange unlike its brothers. It’s a rare enough sight, and he’s pleased that such a unique koi would help remember Fu.

The Yao clan does this for each bodyguard, no matter if they died in battle or in bed (though the former is infinitely more likely). In Xing, while it is impolite to name animals after the dead, it is certainly fine to treat locations and nature like the pond and garden as shrines.

May and Shao Mei dip their hands and paws into the water, sending ripples that cause the fish to flick away; they don’t mean to be disrespectful, as the koi are not meant for mere gazes. Ling smiles as May shriek in horror as instead one particularly huge koi, golden scales brilliant in the light, flicks warm water at her. He can’t help but feel that the koi know more than they let on. In such a place of sacrament and honor, they might truly bridge the dead and living.

After all, he knows now that there is much more beyond the simple terms of life and death.

Ling catches Lan Fan studying him out of the corner of his eye, and turns to her. He arches an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure,” Lan Fan admits. Her eyes are soft, gentle, and they were the one weakness of her violent presence. Anyone could take advantage of the gentle soul in those eyes. So Lan Fan has learned that if she’s quick enough, while Xing is distracted with her eyes, she has a blade already buried in their chest.

Ling cants his gaze aside. “Once I put an end to blood feuds,” he says distractedly, “do you think there will be any more need for retainers and bodyguards? Those who are dedicated to a single life?”

“There will always be clan leaders and court advisors in danger of assassination,” Lan Fan points out. “And the Emperor, especially. It is imprudent to turn away those who are ready to protect you.” He had expected such an answer. She’s a girl dedicated to the life of another; Ling doesn’t know if it’s purely out of a sense of duty or want, or a bastard of both.

“Do you know why the Emperor has children?” Ling asks, and both Lan Fan and May look up. “It’s to unify the clans. There is no easier way to appease over half a billion people than allowing each clan to have a chance to take the throne. Once I’ve ascended to the throne, there may very well be an increased Yao influence in capital decisions.”

“Then why would the Emperor bother with the smaller territories?” asks May Chang, clearly thinking of her own impoverished clan.

“One more ally,” Lan Fan answers. “One less enemy. Small as your clan is, you still hold grave respect for the Emperor.”

“Enough loyalty and faith to go and seek out the Philosopher’s Stone by yourself.” Ling shakes his head. His long black hair falls over his shoulders, and he cards a hand through his hair. “Lan Fan. May. I want your opinions on a potential decree. I do not want to reunify the clans with royal heirs.”

Already they look stunned. Surely, those unseen yet eavesdropping are similarly shocked.

“The court prefers to keep power contained to family.” Lan Fan frowns. “That’s the way it has always been. It’s the same with your bodyguards. It’s a family affair; it assures loyalty.”

“It creates death,” Ling counters. “It only creates discord and stress between the clans. Not a season passes without hearing of some assassination attempt, which only affects the cities to the point of withholding resources. Too many people have lost their lives: our siblings, those sworn to protect, innocent bystanders, for a slim chance at grabbing the throne.”

“Then how do you intend--” Lan Fan begins, and then stops short. Those dark eyes widen.

“Have you two been paying attention?” Ling teases. “Slowly and surely, reunifying Xing in other ways than bloodlines? There’s more to family than just blood. There’s faith, and belief, and trust. It won’t be perfect. It will be better, or so I hope.”

Lan Fan and May nod at the same time.

“Given your silence, I assume you have nothing immediate to say. But if you can think of anything, please feel free to let me know.”

He stretches out his legs and yawns. The orange sunset paints the world a little more mellow, a little less harsh, and with night comes solace. Ling will not confess that he dreads going to sleep. If only it could stay at twilight forever, when skies are full with conflicting colors and thoughts are trapped at the cusp of when day submits to the night-- then there might be enough time to think and reflect.

“Let’s go back,” he says tiredly. “I’m sure I will be questioned incessantly for the remainder of the week.”

“Why not ask the clan leaders to keep quiet? I am sure they would follow your orders, sire,” Lan Fan says, helping the prince stand. She twists around and beckons at May. “Come on, little beansprout. You’ll get lost.” May and her panda seems reluctant to leave the pondside, but the koi start to drift to deeper waters and soon, only the moon shines on the water’s surface.

“You know how rumors work,” Ling says grimly. “All it takes is one person to spark a fire, and then I would have to throw out the whole staff to safely eliminate the source. Besides, I hardly think anyone will believe it. It’s too preposterous.”

“Which is exactly why the people believe you,” Lan Fan shoots back.

He shrugs in defeat. “It has to be my first legitimate act as the Emperor: to abolish the system of royal heirs while retain a legitimate, alternative source to assure allegiance. No doubt I will receive vehement opinions from siblings and court advisors alike. You will have to work twice as hard, Lan Fan.”

“Protect you and the princess,” Lan Fan muses. “It shall be easier than ruling a country.”

May Chang and Shao Mei slip past them, howling gleefully as they chase one another around the compound. Tired of politics, but not too tired to play. They nearly collide with scholars holding arms full of scrolls and veer away just in time. May trills apologies, and then flits away, braids and colorful sashes fluttering behind her, panda at her heels.

“What’s it like?” Ling asks suddenly. “Growing up, knowing that you’ll have to kill so many people to save one person?”

“I don’t question tradition,” Lan Fan says.

“Would you?”

“I couldn’t. I don’t know how.”

This is, evidently, not the first time Ling has asked this. He’s always been curious about the shadows that haunt him ever since birth, and the wide-eyed girl who’s the same age as him. But now Lan Fan looks at him, and asks for her first time:

“What’s it like, growing up and knowing that you could die at any moment because of a jealous sibling?”

Ling smiles weakly. “I don’t question tradition.” A pause. “But I’ll be damned if I don’t put a stop to it.”

* * *

“Lan Fan!” Ling’s fingers claw and dig into the blankets. He screams again, “Lan Fan--!”

Mismatched hands, though both cold from the night air, grip his shoulders and shake him. “I’m here, I’m here,” she says urgently. “Young lord, are you all right?”

“I can’t-- where are you? I can’t see you--”

“I’m right here. We’re in the compound. It was a dream, it was just a--”

“Why can’t I _see_ you?”

Lan Fan stares, not understanding.

His eyes are wide and open, pupils huge like cat’s eyes in the darkness despite the numerous lights in the room. His voice cracks as he repeats, “I can’t _see_ you, I can’t--” Ling swivels his head around, looking but not realizing or understanding what his vision feeds him.

Afraid that he’ll crack his skull against the headboard, Lan Fan moves her hands to cup his face. “Ling,” she tries again. “Can you hear me? Can you feel my hands?”

There’s a long, terrible silence. And then between stifling sobs and gasping for breath, Ling shakily reaches up and grabs her wrists. He clings like a scared child. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, I hear you. I can feel you.”

His screams have drawn attention from all over the compound-- the young lord’s extended family and trusted friends. Lan Fan yells, “Go and get the city doctor. Now!” Then she flinches as she feels Ling’s nails dig into her right wrist. He’s squeezing tight enough to leave bruises, or even draw blood.

Lan Fan looks at her automail arm, and he doesn’t seem to register the pain of gripping the sharp metal.

“Lan Fan?” he asks breathlessly. “Is that you?”

“I’m right in front of you,” the girl replies, trying to keep her voice stable. “Relax your hands, young lord. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Lan Fan, it’s-- it’s so dark in here--” he gasps, now trembling with fear. He’s looking direct at his bodyguard, the one person he trusts enough to call out amidst his nightmares, but Ling doesn’t see _her_. Blood starts to trickle down his pale hand and Lan Fan fights the urge to recoil, knowing the sudden motion could draw even more blood. No, no, this is exactly what she feared--

And then Ling goes completely limp and collapses against her.

Immediately the clansmen leap forward in a clamor, the city doctor without his uniform barrels through the door, sedative already in hand, and then there’s May Chang with long, curly black hair and looking as fierce and scared as ever--

Lan Fan lets out a sigh of relief because she knows that’s the end of the night terrors. His face is serene and without trace of horror barely moments ago. The dreams never last for more than a few minutes even though feel like hours.

She lets the doctor push through the crowd and he starts to bandage his bleeding hand. There’s a flurry of questions, and Lan Fan answers them as fast as she can. _He’s asleep now. No, he won’t have any more nightmares. No, he doesn’t need morphine, he’s not in pain when the nightmare ends. No. No, I don’t know why he has these dreams._

* * *

“In exchange for the knowledge about how to make the Philosopher’s Stone,” the Emperor says curtly, “I will allow the court to review and publish your laws. Your plans for Xing regarding its transportation, trade, and whatever else you deem important will be in effect months earlier than your actual coronation.”

“Respectfully, sire,” Ling says. “I told you that there is no assurance as to whether you could make the Stone work, even if I told you how to make one.”

The small vial of immortality rests in his palms. He notes that every so often, the Emperor would gaze, or leer at the Stone with hunger in his eyes.

“What is the point of research, or royal scientists or alkahestrists of the highest caliber?” the old man demands. “If we do not pursue the truth, we will never find it.”

Ling presses his lips together. “I have shared my concerns with the Stone’s implications.”

“So you refuse now, as you did before.”

“Yes, sire, although it does not affect my ascension.”

“You sound arrogantly confident.”

“I believe I have secured my right to the throne,” Ling says, raising his chin proudly. “I know that no other heir has brought such proof. Furthermore, sire, you have offered the opportunity to lessen the friction when I take the crown. You did not threaten to take away my right as your successor.”

The gray man sighs. “No, I did not. You will be the next emperor, Ling Yao. But you could avoid years of strife from the people and the royal court. Will your crown be simply a symbol? Unable to act and benefit Xing because others do not share your moral intentions?”

He does not hesitate to answer. “If that means I could retain my belief that the Stone should not be used to hurt others, then I will hold my head high and take each challenge as an opportunity.”

The Emperor’s voice is cold. “Stand up.”

Ling obeys. He sees the way the Emperor, the gray, old man, his father, crooks a finger at his face; and he thinks calmly, _This is how I die._

“Tomorrow you start working with the court advisors. The procedure here differs vastly than the clan’s own council. You will learn quickly, and then you will start to submit your intended laws. If you will not accept my humble offer, then I will make it an exaction instead.

“You _will_ ensure a peaceful transition to power, Ling Yao, for the whole of Xing. And you will, one day, tell me the truth behind the Philosopher’s Stone, and its power.”

Ling draws in a deep breath. Relief is not his initial emotion; it is still defiance.

“Not today,” is the first thing he says as a man who has escaped a death sentence.

The Emperor scowls. “Not today.” He hunches over and coughs, the sound of old age rattling in his bones.

* * *

When Ling Yao wakes up, his mouth feels parched. Good news: the headache is gone. Past the long locks obscuring his vision, he sees May Chang is fast asleep, her head heavy against his arm. “She’s been worried all night,” says someone familiar at his other side. “We were all worried.”

“Lan Fan--” Ling croaks, and she stands up from her seat to grab the teapot by his nightstand. The retainer refuses to let him talk until he’s finished a cup, and then another. He stares at his right hand, the fingers and palm wrapped in gauze. “Did I-- What happened?”

Her lips press together. “You were injured.” Lan Fan grips her automail arm self-consciously. “You didn’t realize it until you passed out. The bleeding was minimal, but still-- it shouldn’t have happened. Do you remember anything?”

“No,” The prince lies back against the pillow again. May stirs at the movement, but doesn't move.

“Are you hungry?”

“No. Tell me what else happened in the meantime.”

She leans back on the wicker chair she’d been sitting vigil in for the night. Lan Fan sounds exhausted, but glad that the young prince is of sound mind. It might be better if he didn’t remember the traumatic feelings he experienced in his dreams. “The Yao clan leaders are considering outside assistance. Of course, because you are the crown prince and successor, the alkhestrists must be screened very carefully.”

“Alkahestrists?”

“May noted that your _chi_ was weak, and thinks we should consider looking into energy flow instead of medicinal uses. There may be another solution that we haven’t considered yet.” Lan Fan’s words are steady, as if she’d been practicing while she waited for the prince to wake. “And the clansmen know that you’re suffering from an ailment.”

“Word’s already gotten out?”

“It’s difficult to keep something like this contained.” Lan Fan crosses her arms. “There are reports that some in the city think it’s because you failed to save the Emperor. You would withhold the use of the Stone’s immortality to hasten his death. Young lord, do not concern yourself with such an improper rumor.”

Ling wants to say, _But it’s true_ , but he will know no peace from prying eyes and ears. While his clan is committed to his ascension as the next emperor, there is always, _always_ potential for dissonance.

“With the _chi_ ,” he says, switching the subject, “I have been wondering whether it is possible that there are remnants of the Philosopher’s Stone in me.”

Lan Fan’s jaw drops. “What-- remnants of _Greed_ ?” She doesn’t sound totally disgusted by mention of the Homunculus and Ling thinks, _He’d be pleased._ “We surely would have noticed if there were another soul within you.”

“It might not be so distinct. It might be a sliver... though it doesn’t explain the nightmares. And I don’t hear him anymore.” He sighs. “It might be wishful thinking.”

“You miss him.”

“Yes.”

Lan Fan twists her hands. When it’s clear Ling has nothing else to say on the topic of the Stone and stowaway souls, she tries to keep the conversation going. “I don’t miss him. I am honor-bound, for his efforts to save Grandfather and the young lord, but he was very impolite and insulting.”

“Fu _hated_ him.”

“Yes, I know.” They laugh, though softly, for the sleeping princess’s sake. “Have you thought of finding another retainer to fulfill his position? Or promoting someone in the guard? I have several candidates in mind.”

“You may assign whomever you deem is fit,” Ling thinks hard for a moment, then says slowly, “Lan Fan, I wanted to ask you for the coronation, but I suppose this is a good time. We may need some light these days. Your mask. Where is it?”

She extracts it from her belt and presents it to him.

The young lord gestures to the swirling black _yin_ symbol. “Your grandfather dutifully and happily represented half of my protection while I was Amestris, and still he gave everything. In recent light of balanced energies and _chi_ , I think the symbol should not be incomplete. His mask is buried with him, but not its meaning.”

Ling runs a hand across his face, feeling a semblance of calm settle in his mind with the memory of Fu.

“Before we leave the territory,” he says, “I will have you add the _yang_ to the mask design.”

“Both symbols?” Lan Fan sounds unsure.

“Yes. Make it whole. You are more than capable of representing them.”

He hears the breath catch in her throat. “Yes, my lord.”

In the quiet that follows, Ling and Lan Fan listen to the soft footfalls of paper boys who sprint from one side of the compound to the other. They sense the flow of _chi_ of the clansmen who pass through the halls, and those that linger outside the doors and windows. A church bell tolls in the distant, reminding them of their time in Amestris.

Lan Fan turns to prince and she studies him. Ling’s _chi_ is weaker than the other mornings, and it trembles. It rattles around in his body and mind like a stone in an empty jar.

“Ling?” May yawns and rubs her eyes. She asks sleepily, “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, little one. Thank you for your concern. Do you want some breakfast?” May nods. The moment Ling moves his legs, his retainer is ready to reprimand him, scold him, but he holds up a hand. “No, it’s fine. I feel stronger. Weak _chi_ , but strong body.”

True enough, the aches that plagued him yesterday have faded significantly. Ling sits up, then stands with only minimal help. He spots the crescent-shaped bruises that encircle Lan Fan’s wrist. “What happened?”

“I handled the situation.” That was the straightforward response for whenever Lan Fan dealt with an assassin or troublesome circumstances. Ling immediately believes it, and thinks nothing further. “I will have someone to take over my watch. I will return in a few hours.”

“Go and rest as long as needed, Lan Fan. You can’t protect us if you’re thoroughly exhausted.”

For the following days during their stay at the Yao compound, everyone watches the crown prince for his expectant nightmares. He sleeps fitfully, and without the accompanying terror or panic. Lan Fan still keeps vigil each night. Each morning, Ling wakes and asks if anything had happened. Rambling thoughts, incoherent conversations. She is relieved to tell him that his sleep was uneventful.

He regains his strength and manages to accomplish many of his tasks. Ling visits the city to meet with some council members and scientists who participated in the various conventions per the royal decree. An alkahestrist or two from neighboring clans arrive, too, but share the same verdict: his soul is weaker than expected.

It doesn’t affect his mind or body, so Ling finds the excuse to not linger on the ailment. For as quickly as it had arrived, it dissipates.

The crown prince pays respects to Fu, at a memorial dedicated to the retainer near the garden pavilion. Lan Fan and her newly designed mask joins him. Tradition calls for incense, whose smoke and scent winds and wafts around the two. Ling then sees Lan Fan step forward and light an additional joss stick.

“For the Homunculus,” Lan Fan says without turning around. “He saved your life.”

Ling hesitates. He’d never thought to mourn Greed in this traditional method, but follows suit. “It seems strange to mourn an immortal.”

“All things have an end,” Lan Fan replies. “We closed the chapter with Amestris and Homunculi.” She bows one more, for the sin she did not want to miss, and then turns to Ling. “What matters now is your ascension, and Xing.”

“I know,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....I don't know why this is so long. Thank you so much for your comments!
> 
> feel free to come bother me at [my tumblr](http://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/)


	3. The Hollow Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We diverge slightly from Xing events and find a surplus of cameos back in Amestris.

Alphonse Elric still has a sort of tinny sound to his voice, something that the others chalk up to unused vocal chords and his youth. Sometimes Edward and Winry do a double-take to make sure that he’s flesh and bone instead of sheet metal.

He missed food, he missed the metal fork scraping against his teeth, he missed having headaches after eating ice cream too quickly. He missed the way rain felt against his skin and mud between his toes; he likes to lie in the field and close his eyes in the warmth, feeling the grass tickle his cheeks.

And he smiles as much as he can. Alphonse has the kind of smile that coaxes a chuckle out of the stoic, or softens the edges of a snarling stranger. It’s genuine; it’s compelling; it’s  _ his  _ smile.

Sometimes when he checks his reflection and grins, he’s thrown back to the white landscape of truths and Truth.

Truth smiles, too, because it adores the arrogance of alchemists who dare defy laws of the universe.

It’s the autumn after the Promised Day, and Resembool changes colors. Leaves flare to brilliant orange and reds, then turn caramel-brown crisp at the edges. Alphonse and Edward take the time to walk and stretch their legs in the chilly morning, making sure to bundle warm. He often wore loose-fitting clothes, wanting to hide the thin and crooked figure that still haunts his health. Still, every sensation of thread and cloth against bare skin thrilled him.

He missed seeing his breath cloud in the air.

Their walk takes them, as usual, to the cemetery where they carefully brush debris off the dual graves. Edward kneels and sets down the bouquet Pinako had bought from yesterday’s market. The carnations are still whole and beautiful; leaving flowers at a grave are, if anything, merely a gesture of remembrance for the dead. The older Elric brother doesn’t know whether or not to believe that the past was watching them-- save from his own memory.

Alphonse doesn’t know either, but he likes how it adds color to the gloomy scenery.

“Hey, Ed.”

“Hm? What?”

“Do you miss being an alchemist?”

The older brother shrugs. “Nah.” Then he punches Alphonse lightly on the shoulder. “You’re worth every bit of my sacrifice. It’s the least I could do. Besides, you know enough about alchemy to satisfy the both of us.”

Alphonse thinks of the smile that sometimes haunts his dreams, and his reflection. “True. Enough for a lifetime.” His eyes settle on the recently interred grave. “I wish I could ask our father more. He left journals, but he probably knew so much about The Gates, Homunculi, and Truth. Or whatever that figure was.”

“You think Hohenheim knew? It told us, remember?” He clears his throat. “‘Perhaps the world, or perhaps the universe, or perhaps God, or perhaps truth.’”

A gentle wind passes through the countryside and sends shivers down their spines. Clouds block out the sun and hide the golden-eyed brothers’ shadows. “‘Or perhaps all, or perhaps one,’” Alphonse finishes.

“If it really is God, maybe you can pray to it,” Edward chuckles. “But when’s the last time you heard of an alchemist praying?”

They take one last moment of silence for their parents. Knowing the Elric brothers, they’ll be back to the cemetery before the leaves completely abandon the trees. Then Edward clears his throat again and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Listen, Al, I thought we left it behind six months ago. I dunno why you’re thinking about the Gate of Truth again.”

“Me neither.”

Edward’s eyes are cool and steady. “Whatever you decide to do… I can’t follow you.”

He says it without a trace of sarcasm, irony, and without any stab at humor. It’s just the truth-- Edward can’t use alchemy anymore. The path ahead will have to be Alphonse’s, and his alone.

The younger Elric acknowledges the warning with a slight nod, and then he tugs up the collar of his coat. “Let’s go back”, he says, teeth chattering. “It’s too cold.”

“What? It’s not even halfway through autumn yet. How are you already cold?”

“I’m just not used to the feeling.”

“When it’s winter, let’s just skip town and find somewhere warm, eh?”

* * *

The day before Ling Yao and his companions leave the territory, a letter is thrust into Lan Fan’s hands. “From the capitol,” the messenger boy says before giving a quick bow, and scampering off for some other errand. Lan Fan snaps the seal open and hands the scroll over to the young prince.

Ling’s expression immediately turns thoughtful. In simple, clear print, reads one simple sentence:

_ Take note and prepare for your coronation on the 21st of December _ .

The Emperor’s royal emblem is stamped below, as if the letter was like any other Xing decree or law. Ling hands the scroll to Lan Fan, then May Chang. The former frowns behind her mask, her eyes crinkling in confusion. “That’s the date of the winter solstice,” she murmurs. “Is this done intentionally?”

“I’d hardly expect less.” Ling tucks the scroll into his knapsack.

“Why does it worry you?” May asks to Lan Fan.

“The winter solstice is known as the shortest day and the longest night of the year. The coronation takes place from dawn to dusk, so the young lord will have the least amount of ceremony in compared to past rulers.” Lan Fan flicks her gaze to Ling. “For some, it could show bold foreshadowing by the Emperor and the royal court.”

Ling waves a disinterested hand. “The shorter the ceremony, the better. Come on. We’ll miss the train.”

When the train had pulled into the Yao territory, the prince and his retainer had welcomed the sight of their home with open arms and a soft sigh of relief. However, May Chang bounces up and down in her seat, eager to be back. It would be her first time back among her clansmen since they returned from Amestris. 

May looks absolutely satisfied, and at peace, as they traverse the sloping valleys. Shao Mei loves to run around and scout the path ahead while chattering excitedly to May. Ling Yao and Lan Fan have been to some of the southern clans for diplomatic and otherwise matters, but after being stifled in the capital and close quarters of the Yao compound, it’s refreshing to be here.

The Chang leaders, far fewer than the Yaos, want to greet Ling Yao and honor his promise to assist the clan. It takes place with a casual tea ceremony, one meant for close friends and families. With them, he finds a sort of homecoming; however unlike the way May throws her arms around her family and sobs happily about being able to fulfill her journey.

_ May Chang,  _ they croon,  _ All we wanted was to have you home. You have brought so much more than honor. _

Lan Fan, distant from such sentimental matters, does quick rounds around the village to ensure her charges’ protection. 

It becomes clear that while the villages were isolated and difficult to reach without passing through the main road, but another problem becomes quickly evident. After leaving the Chang leaders and wandering around the beaten paths, she rounds on May and demands to know how she had survived all this time.

“Don’t you have a bodyguard? Or someone who can keep you out of danger?”

May scuffs the road with her shoes, refusing to meet her gaze at first. She replies, “The clan doesn’t have an official guard. There are only a few thousand clansmen in the state. When I was younger, some offered their lives to protect me. I refused.”

Lan Fan looks outraged. “What? Why?” she demands, and Ling sets a tentative hand on her shoulder. Her eyes are wide and angry; there’s fear in her voice. “Why would you risk it? The clan depends on you.”

“No, it  _ doesn’t _ ,” May answers angrily, and her two elders start in surprise. “Everyone knows that a kid like me could never become the next Emperor. If I die, life in the clan moves on. And I’m not dumb! I learned how to fight and I learned alkahestry to protect myself! Beyond that, the clan doesn’t owe me anything. They don’t have time for politics, or the money, or the status.”

May and Lan Fan glare at each other, fists clenched at their sides

It is the bodyguard who softens first, though reluctantly. “I did not realize how little the capital cares for the Changs. Or all the other smaller territories.”

The small girl shrugs. She tries to not look uncomfortable or upset. “It’s different for the Yao clan,” she says, now nodding at Ling. “He’s one of the top contenders for the throne. He  _ needs  _ you.”

Lan Fan is too surprised to reply.

Thankfully, Ling steps forward and gently offers his hand to May. “Come on, warrior princess,” he says softly. “You promised you’d give us a tour of the land.” With a small smile of encouragement, she nods, takes his hand, and starts pulling him towards the main village. May leads them to the rice terraces and points out the distant, related villages. Her extended family is scattered all around the valley, so she spent her childhood living in each town. An occasional explosion of blue light flares in the distance. “You have many alkahestrists in the clan?” asks Ling.

“No more than usual,” May says. “Some learn it as a trade for medicine. But others learn alkahestry as a hobby, or for fun.”

In the evening they relax in the warmth of May’s home, minded by her extended family during her leave. Ling Yao is glad to find some privacy with the trio; even Lan Fan, unmasked in the home, seems at relative ease. The earlier tension between Lan Fan and the princess seems to have abated.

They eat dinner curled around a fire pit, and try the Chang’s staple of fried rice and collard greens. They talk about anything but politics. They talk about Amestris, and their friends, and the letters they’ve exchanged in the last few months. 

The next morning, Ling Yao wakes early, and slips outside.

The misty air clings to his skin and robes. The ground, too, is dewy. Ling shivers at the fog that rolls through the valleys, more used to the city and urban atmosphere of the Yao clan. Tightening his robes around him, he heads towards the main road. Somewhere in the mountains, he hears a rooster crow in the early hours as the clan slowly, surely wakes up.

Not long after leaving the house, a bundle of black and white tangles with his stride. Ling pauses to pick up Shao Mei. “Good morning,” he greets. The panda nibbles his fingers politely. “Are you acting as my bodyguard today?”

“Hardly,” says Lan Fan. the bodyguard appears next to him, subtle like the fog. Then she holds out a pair of slippers. “You’re not wearing any shoes, young lord.”

“It would seem so.”

It takes them a few minutes to reach the main road that leads to the other villages, and the rice terraces. An oxen-drawn cart rattles by slowly. The farmers don’t recognize the prince, and offer a simple wave as they pass.

The fog settles heavily on the land. Ling and Lan Fan sit down on the boulders that line the main road and watch the sun struggle to shine from behind the mountainous, cloudy horizon. The prince looks around and notes how wildflowers sprout from unlikely areas: the crevices between boulders, the shallow sinkhole filled with stagnant water, and among the briar.

“Lan Fan,” he says finally. “With regards to what you said yesterday: Do you think the Yao clan depends on me?”

She doesn’t enjoy how he uses her exact phrasing, but answers anyways. “I believe so. As the clan’s only royal candidate, you would immediately elevate the clan’s status upon your ascension.”

“And is that all I am meant to do?”

She hesitates.

“We’re far from the capital and our clan, Lan Fan. You may speak freely to me.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Ling smiles. “That’s quite all right. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Lan Fan still wants to try for an answer. Her answer seems easy enough, but she struggles to voice it completely. “When you ordered me to protect May, I refused because… I did not want to entertain the thought of your death.” 

A sunbeam falls across their faces and Ling shades his eyes until a passing cloud lessens the blinding white. Despite the sun’s presence, their breaths frost the air. He thinks that once, as a child, he heard that when an object grows cold, its surroundings grow hot. What an idea, that they would shiver for the sake of creating a little warmth in the world around them. It seems almost pointless.

“Life moves on after we die,” Ling says, recalling May’s words. “None of us, not even the Emperor, is an exception.”

“But the Stone--?”

“You know firsthand that even Stones can be destroyed. The fact remains, is that May Chang doesn’t have anyone but you and me and the panda. She’s right; her clan is too weak to help. Our friends in Amestris are too far away, and might be too late to help her in any eventuality.”

The dark-eyed girl flexes the fingers of her automail arm nervously. Death is not a stranger in her life, but she might do everything in her power to keep Ling out of its grasp. “This is why you asked me to protect her. Forgive me, young lord. I think I understand now.”

“May is family, Lan Fan.” He plucks a wildflower from the ground and offers it to Shao Mei. The panda curiously smells the plant, whose petals are untouched by winter. “And she’s right. Your support means everything to me. I couldn’t have made it this far without your help.”

Then he looks up.

“I was talking to you, not the panda.”

Lan Fan’s smile behind her mask is small and tender. “I guessed so.”

There’s more to confess, but enough has been said for this early morning.

* * *

On the journey back to the capital, Ling Yao eyes the little beansprout sitting across from him. May Chang has a basket of almond cookies from her clansmen in her lap. She has been staring at him for the last few minutes with a serious look on her face. He finally sets aside his textbook and crosses his arms. “All right,” he says, “What’s the matter?”

“Have you told the Emperor the secrets of the Stone?”

Ling looks out the cabin window. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“The timing’s not right. I will, one day. He’ll make sure of it.”

May tightens her grip on the basket. Conversation about their father tapers off, and the trip is spent mostly in silent reflection. Once they return to the confines of the palace, there is more than enough time to discuss politics. Ling is quickly ushered away to debate with court advisors within minutes of his arrival. He’s pleased to hear the positive feedback for the new laws. Thanks to the increase in prosperity during the past seasons, Xing now has an influx of trade opportunities from countries to the west and the east.

Ling thinks the next motion should be to reach out to General Mustang in Amestris once more. The country has the most potential for profit. Furthermore, what with the revitalization of the Holy Land, Xing has the opportunity to offer aid. One or two advisors lament about the loss of resources, but are quickly ignored in favor of Ishval.

“I would like to talk with the Ishvalan leaders,” Ling says, thoughtfully tapping his fingers against his chair. He’s seated at the far end of the table; the Emperor would sit opposite, if he were in better health. “And the refugees in Xing. They would have the ideal perspective for how Xing can best give relief. I’d like to interview them before the new year.”

_ Yes, sire. _

A few advisors shuffle in their seats and avert their gazes.

_ By the way, we were notified by the Yao clan of your recent ailments. Is the young lord feeling better? _

“I’m fine,” Ling says shortly. “It was a minor incident. I will have my health regularly checked by doctors and alkahestrists. Besides such, the court proceedings will happen without delay.”

_ Of course, sire. There is one more topic to consider. _

The Xing Emperor usually takes several names of legendary prowess. Not only does it differentiate the rulers over time, it enforces the authority of the crown. With his coronation less than a month away, Ling Yao realizes that  _ he  _ is responsible for naming his epithets; he will be held accountable for whichever proud and overly presumptuous titles that will be noted in history books.

“They’re just so excessive,” Ling later complains to Lan Fan and May. He nestles against the crook of the cherry tree and practices wrapping his hands as he watches the other two spar. “I’ve researched the past rulers. ‘Excellence of Phoenix’, ‘Master of the Eastern Manticore’.”

In the last few weeks of peace before the solstice, the trio regroup in the wilting garden. The palace gardeners try in vain to preserve the flowers, but winter is demanding and demeaning to the earth. The peace is preserved, perhaps even emboldened with the way the weather drives everyone else inside.

“You can have whichever name you deem is appropriate,” Lan Fan says, deflecting the edge of a kunai with her arm. “Perhaps something of relation to the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“That would be cool,” May agrees. She nimbly dodges her opponent’s lunges. “‘The Xingese Philosopher’.” Their sparring intentions are delicate; their movements are violent. It seems that Lan Fan is wholly focused on offensive attacks, so she retreats and forces May change tactics.

Then May trips over a dislodged stone and sprawls face-first in the dirt.

“Ow.”

Lan Fan grabs May by the scruff of her dress and lifts her on her feet. “You’re fine. You need better shoes for fighting.” Lan Fan looks up at the cherry tree, and the prince hiding among the its bare branches. “Young lord, it might be worthwhile to consider a beast or mythical creature. It’s easier to paint on palace decorations and royal insignias. Or maybe a weapon.”

“‘Dragon of the Six Winds’. Spear of the Four Cardinal Directions’.” He tastes the current  emperor’s honorifics and remembers the way they sounded in the palace courtroom. Belligerent and war-like. Ling shuts his eyes and leans his head against the tree. “I’ll think about it.” Lan Fan and May continue to spar; the noise of metal against metal shreds any chance of sleep, but he finds comfort in the flow of their  _ chi _ . 

* * *

In the middle of being tailored for his coronation robes, Ling feels dizzy and has to sit down for a few minutes, head between his knees. His bodyguard is immediately by his side, checking his pulse and  _ chi _ . His breathing is uneven as he tries to reassure Lan Fan that he’s fine, just nauseous. 

But his eyes are unfocused and glassy, just like the nights in the Yao compound. “Get a doctor,” Lan Fan snarls at the cowering tailor. “Go now!”

“Lan Fan,  _ please-- _ ” Ling begins, but it turns into a groan as another wave of nausea overwhelms him. He reaches out, and his hand bumps against hers. Again, he holds her tight like a vise. “I’ll be fine. It’s-- it’s not a dream, it’s can’t be--”

* * *

Ling doesn’t believe in superstition, or the consequences of rigid tradition. But when his health starts to worsen as the coronation draws near, he wonders if his old man cursed him for keeping immortality out of reach. 

While he seems physically fine, and only occasionally plagued with aches and nausea, nighttime is a different story. Visits from alkahestrists and doctors alike have no more reassurance.

He starts to dream again. Lan Fan clings to side and memorizes his words each night and morning. She listens to him shout about a white world, and a black room; and when he wakes, he confesses that he remembers nothing. She holds these painful testimonies close so that one day, someone could explain his terrors.

The pattern of nightmares is completely unpredictable. Sometimes he will sleep soundly for days. Other times, he would wake in the early hours, wrists pinned by a troubled Lan Fan, afraid that he would hurt himself. Ling insists that because the nightmares have no effect on his physical health, there should be no more dwelling on what might be simply bad dreams.

The court attempts to keep his afflictions quiet, but the capital is not a closed system, as much as it desires to be.

* * *

Alphonse dreams about a gate and a truth.

He finds himself in a blank landscape suddenly, and not knowing why. Alphonse takes a sharp breath, then turns around and recognizes his Gate of Truth. The alchemist takes a shaky step backwards. “What… What in the world…”

“Greetings, Alphonse Elric,” says Truth, seated cross-legged on the ground.

Alphonse whips around; the sight of Truth, returned to its whole, white form, is unsettling to say the least.  _ Is it angry I have my body back? Does it want something?  _ Trapped between knowledge and truth, he nervously asks, “What am I doing here?” His voice rings clear and loud. “What’s going on? I haven’t--”

Truth grins broadly, and Alphonse stops rambling.

“Greetings,” it says again. “You are leaving.”

His mouth is dry. “What?”

Truth cocks its head. Its smile is still frozen and wide and terrifying in all aspects. “You are leaving to seek other branches of alchemy,” it says confidently. “Like branches on a tree, like leaves on a branch. Like stars in the sky, like constellations.”

Something about the descriptions resonates with Alphonse; it makes him tremble, but there is no malice in Truth’s voice. The young boy takes a deep breath. And then he slowly sits down in front of his Gate.

The alchemist and the truth study each other for a couple moments, or what feels like years, of silence. Anyone who enters the white landscape would be absolutely disorientated; there is no ground or ceiling, there is no way to identify what or who is tangible (save for the looming Gate, which are thick and solid like Central Command walls). Alphonse has known this setting far better than most. Only a slight feeling of vertigo buzzes in the back of his mind.

“You say that I’m leaving, but I’m not going anywhere yet,” he says at last, leveling his gaze with Truth. “Once I’m well again, I want to go to Xing and the rest of the eastern countries. There’s a lot to learn about alchemy and alkahestry.”

“Your travels to the east is inevitable; it is only a matter of time.”

Alphonse leans forward curiously. “You said alkahestry and alchemy are like tree branches. So does that mean it  _ is _ connected, and it has the same origins?”

Truth spreads out its shapeless hands. “I said nothing of the sort.”

“But--”

“It benefits us both to reveal only what  _ you _ know, what  _ you _ hypothesize. It would be useless to try and see beyond  _ my  _ words.” It shakes its head. “Human minds are too finite. Even the simple pursuit of knowledge can tear your minds apart.”

Alphonse risks a glance back at the Gate. A moment inside had nearly been too much for him, and he doesn’t doubt Truth’s words. Still he tentatively asks, “Is it… is it possible to sacrifice more than your body and your soul? Is it possible to gain more?”

“Always,” Truth replies. “You might be dead, or trapped on this plane, but at least you’re smarter than everyone else, right?”

Alphonse wavers. “How…” he swallows hard. “If I gave my whole body all those years ago, how come my alchemy is no different than Edward’s?”

The smile grows wider. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just--” he claps his hands to mimic a transmutation. “And just that.”

“And you think that’s the limit of your alchemy?”

Alphonse stares.

Truth stands up, and Alphonse hurriedly copies him. The blinding white figure is about the same height as him, the same width.  _ The truth is a mirror,  _ he decides later,  _ and one that cannot be cracked easily.  _ “Have you ever forged a path in your transmutation without the guidance of your older brother?” it asks.

“I…” A memory unwillingly rises to the surface. “Once. When I used a Philosopher’s Stone.”

Truth nods. “The Stone amplifies your existing skills. Does that answer your question, Alphonse Elric?”

“Wait, is that why you brought me here?”

Suddenly, Alphonse is falling, and he yelps as he crashes against the hardwood floor. He recognizes the palli dblue of the living room carpet only a few inches from his face. A blanket tangles his legs. Edward towers over him, hands on his hips. He prods his little brother with his metal foot.

“Oi, oi,” he says, “Get up. It’s time for dinner.”

“What?”

“Dinner. You’ve been napping.”

“Did you push me?” Alphonse asks incredulously, pushing himself up.

“Who can say?” his brother answers cheekily. Edward picks up the nearby cane resting on the wall and holds it out. “C’mon. Pinako made stew.”

The Rockbell home is cozy and filled with delicious aromas, a definite alternative to the Gate of Truth. With Edward’s help, Alphonse stands and they head to the kitchen. Winry leaps past them to rush upstairs, rambling about automail, but she winks at the brothers as she passes.

Alphonse sits down heavily at the table. “I talked to Truth. And I saw the Gate.”

Edward pauses mid-sip of his drink. “What do you mean? Like in a dream?”

“No. Well, yes, in a dream. But it was like I was back there all over again.” Alphonse shrugs. “I didn’t look in the Gate, so there was no toll to pay. We just talked.”

“Talked? About what?”

“Alchemy.” He laughs, despite himself. “What else?”

Winry returns, tugging off her bandana and taking her seat next to Edward. Pinako brings over the rest of dishes and sits, too. The brothers cease talk about gates and truths for the time being. Later, Alphonse sneaks out to the balcony and folds his arms against the cold railing. Nighttime lets him take the time to think about-- well, everything.

Eventually Edward joins him, too. The lights in the distance are few and far between, typical of the country residences. The silhouette of their old house calls to them. “So what happened in your dream?” Edward asks. His tone is casual, full of bravado and reassurance.

“I told you, I don’t think it was just a dream. I think I was really there.” Alphonse looks up at the sky. “We talked about equivalent exchange, I guess. And alkahestry.”

“Why?”

He gestures to the stars. “Truth said-- or it implied that alchemy and alkahestry were like constellations, so they have to be connected in some way. We know that they have similar beginnings. The Homunculus brought alchemy here, and our father helped create alkahestry in Xing.” Alphonse sighs. “I wish I could just go to Xing now. It seems so far away.”

Edward pats him on the back. “There’s no rush.” He glances out over the horizon. “And if you go…”

“You’ll come with me?” Alphonse guesses.

“Probably.”

“What about the West?” Alphonse smiles. “Remember all the stories about Creta? Each tribe has a unique style of divine-based magic.”

Edward tilts his head. “I suppose that’d be interesting. I wonder if the same rules of Gates and Truth applies globally. Learning more about the west would be worthwhile research” He shakes his head vigorously. “But I don’t think Creta would take too kindly to Amestris visitors. Even with the new regime in effect, there were lots of casualties on both sides, thanks to Bradley.”

“Hopefully with the new government we can find a way to be on better terms.” Alphonse straightens up. He fixes his eyes on the distant silhouettes, and he suggests: “So what if I go to the East, and you go to the West?”

Edward opens his mouth to argue, then puzzles it over.

“Think about it. We can cover both sides of the continent and bring it together in Amestris.”

“Not a bad idea,” Edward admits. He side-eyes his little brother. “Did you talk about this with Truth?”

“No,” Alphonse replies honestly. “Just the part about going to Xing.”

The elder Elric tugs at his braid and lets the hair fall over his shoulders. He worries the elastic, stretching and toying with its. “We need to think about it. Plan ahead. We’ll wait for you to get better, and for the violence on the western front to calm a bit. At least a year. Maybe two.”

He sighs.

“It’s been almost a year since the Promised Day. How do you think Ling Yao and the others are doing?”

“You saw May’s letter,” says Alphonse, thinking about the delicate scroll tucked away in one of his drawers. “She says that the outlook for Ling’s coronation looks hopeful”.

* * *

In the weeks that follow, the younger Elric’s sleep is peppered with occasional visits to the white landscape.

He finds some relief by reminding himself that he  _ knows _ where he is; his body had spent more than a year confined here. And because Alphonse was robbed of the ability to sleep when he’d lost his body, he never shies from sleeping, even with the possibility of meeting Truth.

Just like the first dream, he’d always come across some small epiphany about alchemy or truth, or nature’s laws.

A casual debate about circles and circulation inspires Alphonse to look into alternative methods of transmutation. Before, he’d always clapped his hands together or used a transmutation circle to initiate the flow of energy. He didn’t always need direct contact with the material to transform its shape; then he thinks about Hohenheim’s ability to transmute without moving a muscle.

A visit from Izumi Curtis reminds Alphonse that firstly, she is glad to see the brothers on the mend; and secondly, they are only able to transmute without sigils because they use willpower instead of chalk.

Izumi stakes a claim on the Rockbell’s front yard to practice alchemy, much to Pinako’s disdain. They respected the other for the presence in the Elrics’ lives, but Pinako blamed her for teaching them the craft; all attempts to mediate their arguments were useless. Winry and the Elrics nonetheless try and make the most of her visit. 

“We don’t  _ draw  _ the symbols of creation or destruction,” Izumi insists. “We replace it with our thoughts and willpower. So if you want to substitute this--” She claps her hands together and crouches. An electric blue light leaps from the ground and suddenly traps the older Elric brother in the middle of a stone birdcage. Izumi brushes the dirt from her dress. “You’ll have to find another way to create a circle.”

“Blood circulation,” Winry suggests to the alchemists. The automail mechanic is pleased with the way their eyes light up with interest. She brings out several textbooks on human anatomy and hands them to the others. Familiar with the pages and diagrams, Winry explains the bare basics: “Arteries carry blood away from the heart. Veins carry blood back to the heart.”

“That should work,” Izumi agrees. “Alphonse. Close your eyes. Listen to the blood pumping in your heart. Then try to substitute the action, and transform the cage.”

Edward, who had started to imagine life trapped in the Rockbell’s front yard, swears on his life that his little brother’s face turns beet red, as if all the blood was rushing to his face.

Then Alphonse faints.

It happens a few more times, and all without any sign of alchemy in action. With Pinako’s observant, judging gaze on their backs, they free Edward, take a break, and reconsider their approach.

Winry notes that Alphonse’s regular morning coffee could be affecting his heartbeat; he’s not totally thrilled to give up drinking coffee. But her suspicions prove right: slowly, he is able to transmute by only focusing on his blood flow. Over the course of Izumi’s visit, Alphonse aims to improve his stamina and withstand continuous transmutations without being too exhausted. When he prepares to transmute, he often presses two fingers to the pulse in his wrist and meditates on the rhythm. It’s methodical and simple, as easy to comprehend as drawing a chalk circle. 

Izumi sees the determined light in his eyes, and she reminds him to rest and regain his energy. It doesn’t help that Edward eagerly encourages him, even if the intentions are well-meaning.

“Do you think you can make a force field to stop projectiles?” Edward asks one afternoon. For the next few hours, the brothers lob rotting apples at each other, hoping that some innate alchemy would kick in. Alphonse manages to create a crackle of red light at the tips of his fingers but it lacks any serious protective power. A conversation with Truth reminds him that certain alchemy traits might be too abstract to grasp.

Alphonse also confesses his dreams to Izumi. Once she realizes that Alphonse is in no immediate danger from conversing with Truth, her temper simmers and she begrudgingly cautions him. Izumi reasons that Truth is a reflection of the soul; it acts more like a conscience, and so it should be harmless if Alphonse refrained from crossing natural laws again.

His alchemy starts to change, little by little. 

Just as the chill starts to settle for early winter and the leaves start to brown, Izumi takes her leave. “Give my thanks to the Rockbells. Next time, you come to Dublith,” Izumi grumbles as she waits for the train home. Alphonse sits next to her in the empty train station; he is the only one available to see him off. Winry and Ed are working on the latter’s automail.

“Thank you, Teacher.” Alphonse rests his cane against his knees and studies the grain. He suggests, “Perhaps next time, I’ll be able to show you more than just lights.”

“It takes time to grow.” Then her black eyes turn serious. _“_ Alphonse, a word of advice. Don’t go around thinking that you can be an alchemist like Hohenheim. He was a Philosopher’s Stone, not a human.”

“But--”

“I mean it. Recognize your limits.” A train whistle slices through the cold air. They stand automatically and button their coats in the incoming evening. Dark clouds in the sky suggests snow, and Izumi attempts some off-hand comment about weather delays. Her gaze lingers on him. There’s concern amidst the stern façade. “Be safe, all right?” Izumi chides lightly, and then hugs him.

Her parting advice somberly haunts him for a while. It reminds him of Truth’s warnings of arrogance, and threats of losing another limb for the sake of a glimpse in the Gate of Truth. Alphonse reflects on whether he’s really looking for knowledge or power.

Thoughts about Xing and other eastern countries reassure the alchemist of his true intentions.

He exchanges letters with May Chang, starting to cultivate the idea of learning alkahestry under her supervision. Alphonse and Edward take the train to Ishval to continue their previous search for books pertaining to the eastern practice. They find a few potential tomes, though need to translate the writings once they’re back in Resembool. They also learn about the Xingese Emperor’s plans to construct a legitimate trade route. The prospect of a cross-country railroad system is appealing to many, not to mention that it employs hundreds of Amestrians, Ishvalans, and Xingese people alike.

“Excuse me,” Alphonse asks a trader as the brothers browse in a busy market. “What’s new in Xing? Any word about the Emperor’s health?”

The look on the trader’s face is grim. “Fading, and fading fast,” he replies. “Most don’t think he’ll live long enough to see the Yao coronation next week.”

“Next week?” Alphonse is stunned. Time passes quickly, but it’s hard to imagine that the rowdy boy they knew was on his way to become ruler of a country.

Another Xingese merchant standing nearby scoffs in disbelief. “It’s supposed to take place on the winter solstice. The last time I was back, I heard the Yao prince was seriously ill. Like father, like son.”

Edward frowns. “He’s sick? From what?”

“No one knows. Some say it’s the Stone he brought to Xing.” The two traders, donned in different clan colors, sigh in unison. “Shame. He would have made a good emperor.”

* * *

In his dreams, Alphonse studies the familiar Gate of Truth. Initially he’d been nervous to consider the idea of touching it, let alone relaxing in its presence. Of course, he would never have imagined having a casual conversation with Truth itself. “It’s not possible for a non-alchemist to use the Stone,” Alphonse says thoughtfully. “So what about alkahestrists like May Chang?”

Truth stands tall with its hands behind its back. “You think she’d be confined to alkahestry when the power of the Philosopher’s Stone is in her possession?”

“No,” he admits. “I suppose not.”

Alphonse gingerly reaches out and brushes his fingers against the carvings on the door. The words, the symbols, the drawings-- they seem to blur when he returns to his waking state. Occasionally, he’ll see a similar drawing in a textbook but shake it off as a coincidence. He never remembers the carvings until he’s back here.

“Will May have a Gate of Truth, too?”

“Those who dare to test the limits of the world will always have a Gate of Truth.” The shapeless being leans forward, grinning. “It is up to her for whether or not she actually sees what’s  _ inside _ .”

“She won’t,” Alphonse says sharply. “She knows the consequences.”

“And your friend Ling Yao?”

“He’s not an alchemist or an alkahestrist. He wouldn’t have a Gate.” Alphonse turns around. “But it makes me wonder-- Ling Yao can’t use the Philosopher’s Stone even if he wanted to. What’s more, the Stone wouldn’t make him ill.”

“Your point?”

“Xing believe that the Stone affects his physical health.”

“Humans will always be limited by what they know,” Truth declares, and Alphonse reluctantly agrees. “In Xing’s terms, Ling Yao’s  _ chi _ is unwell. Something is amiss inside him.”

Alphonse absentmindedly taps his fingers against his wrist. His correspondances with May failed to mention anything about Ling’s health. Perhaps there was a reason he would want to keep the source of his sickness a secret-- “Maybe it was a side effect of having a Homunculus inside of him,” he suggests.

“Maybe.”

The golden-haired, golden-eyed boy looks up.

When did Truth stop smiling?

“Do  _ you  _ know?” Alphonse asks.

“You are simply guessing.” It spreads its hands out in a peaceful manner. “So what I am, but speculation?”

“I thought the truth was supposed to be candid.”

“When it wants to be.”

Alphonse feels the gentle thrum of his pulse underneath his fingers. It is slow, and it reminds him to solve questions and challenges one step at a time, one heartbeat at a time. “Ling Yao is the only person who ever separated from a Homunculus,” he states. “So there is a possibility of consequence.”

“And what happened to the Homunculus itself? Greed?”

“They tell me that Father-- the Homunculus who called himself Father-- destroyed Greed.”

Truth tilts its head. “That is certainly what the others told you.”

There’s an inkling of suspicion in the back of his mind-- but it’s not doubt for what Edward and Ling Yao described in his temporary absence after transmuting his soul. “If Greed was, say, a parasite, then knowing his origins might point us in the right direction.” Alphonse blinks. “And we know that the Homunculi came from their father.”

“So they would have the same origins?”

“Yes. He extracted Greed and Lust and Envy and the other sins from his body. And I’ve read my father’s journals. He says that the Homunculus was once a part of God, before he was confined to a vessel. A flask.” Alphonse knows that he’s close to the truth, or at least one of many truths. It’s barely within grasp, and yet--

“Then you’ve reached a contradiction,” Truth jeers. “Even if the Homunculi and their father had the same divine origins, you can’t destroy the Eye of God.”

Alphonse looks up sharply. “If it’s a contradiction, then something must change. Selim Bradley used to be a Homunculus, and he lives.”

“Selim Bradley wasn’t  _ crushed  _ into nonexistence by his creator.”

“The Homunculi were souls, and souls must follow the same laws of nature. Nothing truly  _ disappears _ . Still, still, we’re limited by what we know. We don’t know what happens to the soul after death--”

He stutters to a halt as Truth’s smile returns tenfold.

“What happens to the soul after death?” Truth echoes. Its laugh is low, and like thunder. “Well, shouldn’t you know?”

Alphonse jolts awake.

Edward looks up from his newspaper. The train hurtles across the country, leaving behind the Ishvalan deserts and eastern cities. The faintest hints of Resembool are on the horizon; home calls to them, but Alphonse feels dizzy as if he’s still in the landscape. He runs a shaky hand over his face and squeezes his eyes tight.

The dream is slipping faster than usual, the truth and Truth, like fine sand between his fingers.

“What’s with the long face?” Edward jokes, “You and Truth argue about circles again?”

* * *

Their next stop is the Central library, and the Elrics meet Winry at the train station. She had spent some time in Rush Valley, and is excited to ramble about all the new technology. “By the way,” Winry tells the brothers as they approach the library building, “I made a couple of calls.”

“What does that mean--?” Edward starts, and then pushing open the doors,  they find themselves surrounded by known friends and allies: Majors Armstrong and Miles, Doctor Marcoh, and the four chimeras. Edward is immediately swarmed by Darius and Heinkel, who joined him for a cross-country trek last year. “Let go! Put me down! Jeez, did you guys get bigger?”

The others laugh happily, and Alphonse heartily shakes hands with Jerso and Zampano. “It’s good to see you two,” he says, grinning. “How are your families?” Armstrong approaches and gingerly pats his head, as if the boy would shatter like fine china. Alphonse chuckles at the gentle giant. “And I’m happy to see you, Major. I hear that you’re responsible for directing the railroad construction in Ishval.”

A proud twinkle fills his baby blue eyes. “You’re absolutely correct,” Armstrong rumbles. “I’ve always enjoyed traveling to Xing as a child, and I’ll make sure this cross-country rail will be the first of its kind. I’ve already recruited Sergeant Brosh and Second Lieutenant Ross to help me.”

Edward wrestles away from the chimeras fawning over him. “And Major Miles? Doctor Marcoh? You’re stationed in Ishval too?”

Miles tilts his head. “Yes. Central placed General Armstrong in Ishval to lead the main reconstruction efforts. The doctor is in charge of the medical relief.” His polite smile might have reached his eyes, but there’s no way to tell with his silver glasses.  “We happened to be in town to make a report; the general sends her regards to the Elric brothers.”

“Yeah, tell the Ice Queen that we said hello, too.”

The library doors open again and turning, the brothers see two more figures: General Mustang and Riza Hawkeye.

A smirk splits across Mustang’s face. He sweeps off his hat and tucks it under his arm. “Edward and Alphonse Elric. Planning to come to Central without even saying hello?”

“General.” The older Elric brother sets his jaw. “We heard you got your eyesight back.”

To their surprise, the lines around Mustang’s black eyes crinkle in amusement. “It’s true, Fullmetal,” he replies, using the nickname although Edward had stepped down from the position when he lost his powers. “There was an opportunity for medical miracles, thanks to Doctor Marcoh. If you remember Second Lieutenant Havoc, he has also regained the use of his legs.”

“So the doctor used a Philosopher’s Stone,” Alphonse guesses. “The same one that healed Heinkel back in Kanama.” He feels a heavy hand settle on his shoulder and without looking, knows that it’s the lion chimera.

“Not without consequence,” Marcoh interjects quietly. “Although we can’t take away the Stone’s origins, we can use its capabilities to promote good.

Edward crosses his arms and huffs. “I don't agree with using the Stone,” he grumbles, “but at least you use it for something worthwhile, Doctor. Good to hear about Havoc.”

The reunited friends move away from the sensitive subject and eventually warm to each other’s presence. The Elrics had missed the chimeras’ boisterous personalities; Armstrong works up the courage to hug Alphonse properly; and Winry and Hawkeye exchange notes on what’s new in their lives. The lieutenant’s blond hair is cropped close to her scalp, and she seems to smile more than usual. She and Mustang are working towards opening trade relations with Xing, much to Alphonse’s interest.

Everyone is shocked to hear about Alphonse’s progress with the blood circulation substitute.

After some encouragement, he agrees to show off his newfound skills. They step outside to the library courtyard, and Alphonse steps away from the group. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

With a slight twist of his wrists, a crackle of white lightning leaps from the ground and winds around a nearby stone pillar, carving and cutting a vaguely humanoid shape. Moments later, the light fades and Alphonse staggers back.

Mustang studies the statue of a distinct, well-accustomed suit of armor. “Quite impressive,” the general says, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Regardless of being able to transmute beyond limitations, thanks to the forced sacrifice, he wears the trademark white gloves with flame symbols. “Using the biology of our bodies to create the circle. Smart logic, Miss Rockbell. And you say you’ve only practiced for a few weeks? Imagine what could happen in a couple of years.”

Armstrong agrees. “You would make a formidable State Alchemist.”

Alphonse laughs breathlessly. He’s about to protest, or cite a lack of interest when Edward suddenly grabs his brother’s elbow. “State Alchemists get an allowance for research purposes,” he hisses. “It could sponsor your research into alkahestry, including the trip to all the eastern countries. All expenses paid!”

Hawkeye arches an eyebrow. “You would still be subject to working for the government,” she says coolly, and the boys shrink under her gaze. “By all means, take advantage of the funds as long as you’re ready for the responsibilities.” Mustang looks smug with their reprimand. 

Alphonse shakes the pins and needles out of his fingers (a common side effect of the transmutations). “I understand. But I’m not ready to work again. Maybe in a few years.” It’s the best answer he can give at the moment; it’s non-committal and Alphonse will have time to think it over seriously. 

The black-haired general shrugs. “If you ever want to take the entrance exam, just ring me at Central.”

“Give him a dumb code name,” Edward says.

After a while, Mustang and Hawkeye bid their goodbyes and return to the Command Center; the majors follow them. Despite having an audience, the brothers try and continue their investigation into alkahestry. Alphonse and Winry talk with Doctor Marcoh as they collectively try and remember Scar’s brother’s now-missing notes.

Edward tries to search through the library but the chimeras are fantastic at distracting him. He finally asks whether they’ve had progress on returning back to normal humans. “Not even a Stone would help?” he asks, turning to Marcoh.

“The Stone helps to transform what exists,” Marcoh explains grimly, “but one cannot essentially create human material from animal matter. It’s like taking a pigeon and making it a eagle. The biology is too different.” He gestures to the research books on the table. “Alkahestry is a different craft; it could provide possibilities that we haven’t considered before.”

“Doctor Marcoh,” Alphonse says, “Could there be side effects to possessing a Stone? We have a friend-- Ling Yao-- who is sick. He has a Philosopher’s Stone, too.”

Marcoh’s scarred lips dip into a frown. “A Stone cannot make you ill-- Ling Yao is the boy who was inhabited by a Homunculus, right? I’m sorry to hear about his health, but illnesses come in all shapes and forms. It would be difficult to gauge the cause of his sickness without a personal consultation.” The doctor adds, “If you happen to learn more, I would like to try and help.”

Evening draws near and Armstrong and Miles return to collect Doctor Marcoh. They are meant to arrive back to Ishval in the early morning, and they exchange their goodbyes. They promise to meet again, and more often, as much as their responsibilities will allow them. The ever-calm Miles and a tear-eyed Armstrong swiftly take their leave, wishing the brothers all their best.

“If you’re going to Xing,” says Jerso, jabbing a thumb at himself and the other chimeras. “Let us know. Doctor might be right about finding a cure in alkahestry.” 

Alphonse agrees. The idea of traveling across the desert doesn’t seem so far away anymore; and even if Edward decides to travel in the opposite direction, he’ll have familiar faces to go with him.

* * *

Winry picks up a copy of the Amestris morning newspaper during a visit to the local grocery store.

The headlines reads:

XING EMPEROR PASSES AWAY IN HIS SLEEP; PRINCE YAO, 18, CORONATION TAKES PLACE ON THE SOLSTICE

Below are pictures of the emperor and his son. Side-by-side, Winry can see the way their firm smiles and solemn gazes suggest familial resemblance. Ling’s hair is combed away from his face and he looks too, too different than the boy she once knew.

* * *

The shrine built for the deceased Emperor is located in the palace garden. One of his last wishes, apparently, was to be one with the changing seasons; what better place, than amidst the blossoms and tree? Ling leads the procession, head held high and eyes dry.

Behind every mourning wail, every lament for the Emperor’s passing, he hears the whispers of betrayal.

_ Why didn’t you save your father? _

_ You brought immortality to Xing, and let your father die? _

Once the capital has done its share of public mourning, Ling retreats to the garden to privately pay his respects. Lan Fan and May follow in his footsteps, kneeling in front of the sacred space. The siblings pass the candles around to light the incense and joss paper, symbolic paper money for the dead. 

“I was only allowed to publish the new decrees and laws because the Emperor wished it,” Ling says, breaking the silence. The other two know this, but they listen anyways. “And in the same breath, while proclaiming a bright future and a peaceful change in rulers for Xing, he demanded to know the secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

He reaches into his robes and pulls out the small, swirling vial.

“The Stone,” he continues, fixing his eyes on the dead’s name on a smooth jade ancestral tablet, “is made with alchemy. With the proper transmutation circle and sigils, it takes human lives and traps them in eternal torment. Each time the Stone is used, it uses those lives as the energy. Once all the souls are gone, the Stone ceases to exist.”

Ling closes his eyes.

“It created the legend of Xerxes by destroying the country. I would not have the same fate for Xing, for the sake of your search for eternal life, and your indifference for the people, and your awful greed--”

Lan Fan sets a hand on his shoulder. She says nothing; she cannot only hope that he knows the warning behind her touch. Though the youths may think differently about the way certain dead people should be honored, the walls all around them listen on, even after the emperor’s death.

The prince takes a deep breath. Ling stands, and tucks the vial away, close to his heart. He says firmly, “One day, the Stone would have used all of its power, and immortality would end. It gives you power, not life. This is the truth, hollow as it may be, that you did not want to understand.”

* * *

One and a half years later, Alphonse finds two important documents waiting for him before he finally leaves for Xing.

The first is a letter from the venerable Xing Emperor himself. Ling writes cheerfully, noting two pages worth of his and May’s anticipation for the visit. A postscript explains why part of the letter is stained with black ink (it was the panda).

He signs,

_ Your friend,  
_ _ Ling Yao _

But the formal signatures on the second delivered mail, the included travel permissions, express a completely different tone:

_ Emperor Yao, the White Flame, Eternal Soul. _

The Amestris Führer-President lacks honorifics; but Alphonse’s research lets him recognize the title that will follow Ling Yao until his death or abdication.  _ White Flame, Eternal Soul _ . “What’s that supposed to mean?” Edward asked, when they first saw it in an official Xing newspaper clipping. Alphonse’s best guess was a reference to the Yao clan, whose white and yellow clothing traditionally placed flames on their clothes; and the Eternal part was probably about the Philosopher’s Stone.

The brothers bid goodbye in the early spring. There’s no sadness; just excitement for the other’s travels and experiences. Edward is meant to leave for Creta in two days, and he hugs Alphonse tight when the train pulls into Resembool. “See you soon,” he says. “Maybe in a month, maybe two. Maybe more.”

“Hopefully not too long.” Alphonse smiles. “Bye, Ed. See you later.”

He makes his first stop in Central to recruit Jerso and Zampano. The other two chimeras, they explained, did not have families or an overwhelming desire to get their original bodies back; they were content with their animal natures.

Alphonse knew he would see Major Armstrong in Ishval, but doesn’t expect General Roy Mustang to be at the station, too. His cabinet had been established in Ishval to oversee official trade efforts with the now-active rail system. The major is immensely proud of the cross-country railroad after its debut last summer. It brought reports of success for the newly established trade route. The movement between countries is now better monitored, and a community of Xingese people has already settled in the territory outskirts. There is one trip to Xing per day, and it travels throughout the night.

“I hoped to catch you before you left for Xing,” Mustang says. He reaches into his coat and hands Alphonse a thick envelope. “I’m actually here to talk to you about your credentials. Congratulations. You passed with flying colors. Now you’ll be able to access Amestris resources while you’re out of the country.”

Armstrong’s eyes widen and his mustache quivers. “You applied to be a State Alchemist?”

“I can do more as an alchemist than to just fight,” Alphonse explains, gripping the envelope tightly. “I’m traveling to learn. And with the way Grumman is handling a more neutral approach to foreign policy, it makes me think we won’t have any more wars for a long, long time. The last thing I want to be is a weapon for the government.”

Mustang glances at Armstrong. “When did children become so smart?”

“They were always smart, General,” Armstrong replies proudly.

Alphonse tips the envelope’s contents out: the first to fall is a heavy silver pocketwatch on a long chain. The Amestris dragon gleams in the late afternoon light, and the golden-eyed boy can’t help but smile in awe. “We expect great things in your yearly examinations,” Mustang continues. “I hope you have a good tutor in Xing.”

“I do.” Alphonse pulls out the certificate and with the two chimeras peering over his shoulder, he reads the elegant script. His pulse races as he reads the official script, and he laughs out loud in relief and surprise. “Wow. Did you come up with this code name?”

“I may have had some influence. I hope it’s not too excessive.”

“Thanks for not making it something dumb.”

An arrival whistle slices through the station; Alphonse and the chimeras immediately grab their bags and spring forwards. From a distance, they see that the train’s paint is bleached and blistered by its numerous, successful journeys. An arid scent of the desert sweeps into the depot.

Mustang says, “Safe travels, Heartbeat Alchemist.”


	4. Hook, Line, and Sinker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy am i glad this is done  
> depression kicked me in the face last week, but I napped my way through it  
> thanks for all of your comments, they honestly make me so, so happy to know that people read and enjoy this  
> <3

Alphonse and the chimeras catch their first glimpse of Xing in the dusty distance, the border town’s silhouette  like a smudge against a soft, crimson dawn. Beyond, the morning horizon was speckled with street lamps, skylights, house lights as the people of Xing wake and begin yet another day in their lives.

He’d slept for most of the night, missing the way the stars blinked in and out of sight as the train hurtled across the empty desert. The newly-instated alchemist twists round in his seat to catch a flash of black birds or bats zip past to return to their desert roost. But he feels energized and eager, pressing up against the windowsill to soak in the foreign sights.

When the train pulls into the station, they are immediately whisked away by a royal escort.

_Welcome to Xing. The Royal Emperor will be pleased to see your safe arrival._

The next few hours are but a blur-- thanks to the Emperor’s favor, their papers are processed quickly, and then the Amestrians bundle into a car destined for the capital city.  Alphonse watches the change in scenery from desert, to small villages, then urban settings and skyscrapers. As early hours wind into late morning, people spill into the streets wearing overalls and wide brimmed hats, and neat suits and briefcases. Some pause in their daily routine to watch the official car bearing the Emperor’s flag pass by.

The symbol of the Yao Emperor, the white flame, line each and every avenue leading up to the capital.

Alphonse takes out his silver watch, flicks it open, and adjusts the time. Zampano watches Alphonse curiously; his spiky sandy hair brushes against the ceiling of the car. “So,” he says, leaning forward. “‘Heartbeat Alchemist’?”

“Yeah. I guess the fuhrer was impressed enough during the entrance exams.”

He recalls the way the room was shocked into silence; not only could he transmute by clapping his hands together, now he only needed to focus on his pulse to manipulate matter. There’d been a time when he could barely stay conscious during transmutation; Alphonse smiles to himself, immensely proud of his personal progress.

He was born to be an alchemist; he was meant to be an alchemist; he knew his purpose in every heartbeat.

“It suits you,” Jerso adds. “Not just for the alchemy. Even when you were just a soul in a big, hulking suit of armor, you were all heart, Alphonse.” The other chimera nods in agreement.

Then suddenly, the car turns the corner and they see the palace. During his research, Alphonse had memorized the image of the palace in black-and-white, sepia, and full color photographs. The grand sight had hardly changed in the centuries of a dynasty controlled by shared and spilled blood; so when he climbs out of the car and stands at the foot of the royal building, he can’t help a breathless, awestruck laugh.

He roves his eyes over the terracotta red roofs, imperial sandstone staircase, and ceremonial columns that decorate the courtyard. The Xingese architecture was a phenomenon that had already lasted for hundreds of years. “This is incredible,” Alphonse exclaims, turning to the similarly awed chimeras. In his excitement, he fails to notice the entourage of guards and the familiar prince start to descend down the stairs until he hears--

“Welcome to Xing,” says Ling Yao, a smile crinkling at the corners of his dark eyes. “Enjoying the view?”

“Ling!”

Alphonse and the chimeras duck their heads and bow. It’s a gesture of respect for the emperor, and the overbearing limits of tradition on their friendship. And then Alphonse sprints up the stairs and throws his arms around Ling, who laughs and hugs him back tightly. “How’s Edward? And Winry? And how are you?”

“I’m great. And Ed and Winry send their best!” Alphonse laughs. “Congratulations on your coronation. Look at you, Emperor of Xing!”

His black hair is wrapped in a high bun and a white ribbon, though locks of hair fall over his face. The sleeves of his deep red robes are lined with the yellow; Alphonse even notes that he wears purple sashes typical of the Chang clan. A scabbard hangs at his side. However, Ling doesn’t look like the serious and solemn boy king pictured often in the Amestris newspapers. The smile changes everything.

Jerso and Zampano catch up, shaking hands heartily with Ling. They refrain from slapping him on the back, wary of the way the palace guards watch them. The parade of retainers herd the friends up the palace steps. “Damn,” Ling remarks, eyeing Alphonse from head to toe. “I think you’re as tall as me.”

The chimeras suddenly bellow and charge ahead to the top of the staircase. Alphonse at last spies the petite figure of the Xing princess clad in lavender robes, hands on her hips. Pink cherry blossoms weave in her braids. May Chang beams at the sight of her old northern traveling companions. “Jerso! Zampano!”

“Princess Chang!” Zampano sweeps in a grand bow for her. “I think you’ve grown taller!”

“I have! I’m not so little anymore!”

Jerso forgoes the bow and instead swings May up and sets her on his shoulder. “Most definitely! And where’s that panda of yours?!” He sees the little animal clinging to his thumb, sharp teeth no less painful than a papercut for the seasoned soldier. “Still thinking that she’s at the top of the food chain, as usual. Are you two runts adjusting well to the palace life?

May proudly tilts her chin up. “We’re doing just fine!” She glances back and sees that her brother and the alchemist have finally reached the top of the stairs. May suddenly looks nervous, and her panda scampers to hide among her braids.

Alphonse wavers until Ling nudges him forward. At the same time, Jerso lowers May to the ground and pushes her towards him. She’s grown taller, but so has he. The princess and the alchemist study each other for a long, silent moment.

“Hi, Al.”

“Hi, May.”

Both are delighted, beyond thrilled to see each other, but--

The last time Alphonse had seen her was in a daze, readjusting to the overwhelming sensations of being back in a physical body. May and the others left Amestris in a hurry, so there was no opportunity for a proper goodbye-- or an apology.

The last time he had seen her, May had tears in her big brown eyes, still shaken by transmuting his soul to save his big brother. Whether or not Alphonse had realized it at the time, he made May an accomplice in his sacrifice.

Now Alphonse is face-to-face with the Xing princess, who looks at him without tears, and with hesitation.

“May, I am so, so sorry,” Alphonse finally says, voice cracking. “I couldn’t have done anything else to save Edward. I couldn’t have asked anyone else.” He wrote these words in his numerous letters, but it sounds different aloud.

And May-- she brushes a stray hair out of her face and she smiles gently. “I know,” May says, repeating the same reply in her letters, knowing that he would never feel complete without hearing the truth aloud. “I know, Alphonse. And I forgive you.”

She hugs him first.

Alphonse smells like sand and desert, and she can feel his heart hammering in his chest. Slowly, he wraps his arms around her and breathes a slow, long sigh of relief. He feels a tentative nibble on his hand and sees Shao Mei; the panda might not know the sight of his golden hair and eyes in the difference of three years, but she certainly recognizes the soul.

Ling watches them pull apart and wipe happy, relieved tears from their eyes. If he said he wasn’t jealous, he’d be lying. The Xing Emperor is not supposed to cry in front of his countrymen, let alone those from another land altogether. “Come on,” he says instead, walking forward and setting a hand on each of their shoulders. “Let’s catch up when we’re inside.”

It’s late spring, and the warmth of the building welcomes them with open arms. They enter the court waiting room with its gilded doors and mosaic floors, drawing the curious eye to the throne at the far end of the room, held hostage and apart by the river. A flash of calico-colored koi is glimpsed in the stream.

As the dozen soldiers melt into the shadows, no longer necessary to demonstrate public security, another figure clad in dark green robes steps forward.

“Alphonse Elric,” Lan Fan says, reaching out and shaking the boy’s hand. “You look well. How was the train ride?”

“Uneventful, but at the same time, it’s great to think that Xing and Amestris are only seven hours away. It’s much less dangerous that trekking the desert.” He grins. “What’s it like, being the Emperor’s official bodyguard?”

She tilts her head to her liege, and an amused tone takes hold of her voice. “It feels no less different than before, and no more of a challenge.” Lan Fan declines to remove her mask, but she sounds looks older. Her automail, too, looks slightly modified. It has lost most of its malicious traits, replacing studded spikes in favor of sleek silver. Certain forearm plates match the color and texture of Ling’s official weapon.

“I’ve only been poisoned about five times since becoming emperor,” Ling says cheerfully.

“What?”

“No,” May interrupts. “No, he hasn’t.”

“But there is a risk of assassination, right?” Zampano asks carefully.

“None of my siblings have a direct claim to the throne,” Ling replies. “Not anymore.”

Alphonse pipes up. “That’s right. I read that you abolished the previous method of succession.”

“‘Abolished’? Well, yes, I suppose that’s one to phrase it. Candidates for the throne now have to bypass a number of criteria before being seated in front of a council, and myself.” Ling glances over to the throne. “While an emperor is meant to rule until they die, at least this will more autonomy than before. Non-blood relatives can vy for the throne. It’s a question of what can they do for Xing.”

“And reunification of Xing?”

He laughs. “It’s been only three years, Alphonse. I think it’ll take another twenty before I can wrangle the clans to agree on something as radical as merging territories.”

“However,” Lan Fan interjects, “the young lord has made strides to combine resources and knowledge for the sake of all clans. The process is slow, but it encourages loyalty to the crown. The public thinks highly of the royal emperor.”

“So does Amestris,” says Jerso. “Trade opportunities, diplomatic ambassadors, and even work and study exchange programs are now possibilities for our countries.”

Ling quietly studies the river and its koi. “That being said, we haven’t been without troubles or worry. There’s always going to be some part of the population that disagrees, or responds with violence. I’ve had Lan Fan arrange guards in case you want to explore beyond the palace walls. By all means, you have free reign of the place. But maintain a degree of awareness.”

Jerso and Zampano instinctively draw closer to their charge, the golden-eyed alchemist who could likely level the building in a minute. “We’ll be careful,” Alphonse says grimly.

“Thank you. My political opponents are always looking for opportunities to destroy me.” Ling rests a hand on the hilt of his sword. “To say the least, losing friends like you would be a surefire way.” For a moment, he looks like neither the charming prince who’d fought with them, nor the boy emperor who dreams of nationwide peace and cooperation; he looks like someone who has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Alphonse distantly remembers hearing about Ling’s ailments during his coronation and his father’s passing. There had been no mention in the official newspaper, and only half-stewed rumors among marketplaces. Before Alphonse has the chance to inquire, Ling insists on showing the Amestrians their quarters and then leading them on an official tour of the palace.

* * *

Inevitably, when they reach the training arena, someone challenges Ling and Alphonse to test each other’s fighting skills. Perhaps it was the emperor himself, or the alchemist, who would innocently suggest sparring for fun. Ling had been confined to paperwork and council meetings for the past few days, so he is eager to comply.

The two remove their jackets and robes, and set them aside. Alphonse starts to roll up his sleeves as Ling picks up a roll of bandages and deftly wraps his wrists and hands. Lan Fan and May beckong the chimeras to follow them to the upstairs gallery where they can watch the fight.

“Be careful,” Lan Fan tells the two of them, dark eyes narrowed and stern.

Alphonse hastily agrees, and so does Ling.

With no weapon to prepare, Alphonse instead studies the room intently, needing no prop to prepare. He gently presses his palm against a nearby pillar and closes his eyes. Marble column. Wooden planked floor. Heavy timber staircase and wall bracings. He opens his eyes and looks up to see the chimeras, Lan Fan, and May move along the balcony. He makes a mental note to limit the area of effect; he couldn’t dare endanger them.

“Just alchemy?” Ling asks, drawing his attention back. “We have plenty of weapon racks.”

“I haven’t practiced with anything else,” he admits.

Ling finishes wrapping, then unsheathes the sword and tests its balance, giving a few experimental strokes in the air. “I’d be more than happy to show you a few moves later. I think you’d be suited with a quarterstaff, maybe a sabre.”

“What kind of sword do you have? It doesn’t look like it’s made of steel.”

“When I was asked to arm myself, I was thinking about how Greed described the Ultimate Shield,” he says, ignoring the way Alphonse’s eyes widen at the mention of the Homunculus. “He said it was made out of the strongest form of carbon, so I commissioned this.”

“You’re not worried about fighting against another alchemist, then? What if I transform the sword to something as weak as pencil lead?”

“You would have to get close enough,” Ling says, shifting over to stand opposite to Alphonse. He removes the pin from his hair and lets it fall in a ponytail. He taps the blade on the side of his leg. “Ready?”

Before Alphonse can reply, one of the chimeras, maybe Jerso, shouts from above, “Watch it, you’re fighting against an Amestrian State Alchemist!”

Ling’s eyes widen. “Really? When were you going to tell us?”

“I was officially commissioned less than twelve hours ago,” he chuckles. Alphonse flexes his hands nervously. “I’m ready.”

The room crackles with a sharp scent, like the kind that lingers after a brutal thunderstorm. Ling feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand. The black sword in hand feels warm and prickly to the touch, even under the bandages around the hilt.

Ling focuses on the golden-haired boy who looks completely at ease and who, without taking a single step, has created lightning in a breath. Ling laughs at the sight of Alphonse’s cowlick starting to drift upwards in the charged atmosphere. Alphonse notices, and he chuckles, too. “That happens sometimes.”

“It might interest you to learn that I have every reason to believe this sword will shock me,” Ling adds, adjusting his grip on the weapon.

Alphonse raises his eyebrows. “Graphene _is_ a great conductor. But it wouldn’t be great if I electrocuted the Xing emperor, would it?”

“No,” Lan Fan calls from the top gallery. “It really wouldn’t.”

Alphonse extends his fingers and the electric in the air starts to simmer. Lightning bolts cease to leap from the space around him, dissolving into its natural chemistry. “It will be easier to control once I’ve warmed up.”

“I’m sorry,” Ling says as the stabbing sensations in his hands recede. “I didn’t mean to take away from your plan of attack.”

“Not to worry,” Alphonse says cheerfully. “There are plenty of other ways.”

“To lose?”

He laughs. “We’ll see.” Then the alchemist claps his hands together and presses them on the ground. The motion is familiar to both of them. The ground suddenly leaps toward Ling, a direct and linear attack that Ling had expected; the emperor sidesteps the columns and uses the closest pillar to propel his movement forward.

Alphonse drags his hand in a practiced, upward gesture to build a wall in front of him, but Ling unexpectedly clings to the column as it shoots up. He vaults over the top and twists, landing hard behind Alphonse. He kicks out and sweeps the younger boy’s legs out from under him.

Alphonse crashes to the ground, and Ling catches him at the last moment. He grins cockily at the alchemist. “How’s that, State Alchemist?”

“How’d you do that?”

“Most people run away or try to attack the wall. But I thought it’d be easier to just slip past. Catch your breath. We can do it again.”

“Thanks,” Alphonse wheezes. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, deep breath to center himself. Once he’s calm and sitting up, he presses his hands on the ground. The transmutation melts the columns back into the smooth training floor, now only marred with thin, geometric lines. They look much like fissures on dehydrated, drought-ridden land.

Ling’s gaze lingers on the strange cracks. “What are those?”

“Transmutation marks. Whenever you see those around, it means that an alchemist has changed the matter or the substance.” Alphonse frowns. “Is something the matter, Ling?”

The black-haired boy shrugs. “I’ll ask you later. Is that all right?”

“Sure.”

“Ready to go again?” Ling takes his position on the other side of the room, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, adrenaline still pumping. He looks up to the galley. Lan Fan stands stiff and silent in comparison to the chimeras and May, who are encouraging Alphonse to use his newfound alchemy.

Alphonse is not embarrassed by his previous defeat; after all, this was his first time sparring with Ling. And he’d never really fought with anyone besides Edward or Teacher in the past few years. Alphonse might be seriously out of his depth against a seasoned fighter like Ling, but he still wants to try. He brings his hands at his sides, and then nods at Ling Yao. “Let’s go.”

The emperor springs forward.

Ling closes the distance in the time it takes Alphonse to breathe in, then out. The golden-haired boy sees the hesitation scrawl across Ling’s face, though none of the reluctance carries over to his pace, or the way he swings his sword back.

In the galley, May and the chimeras grip the railing and lean forward, roaring at Alphonse to move, to transmute, to do something more than just _stand_ there--

Even Lan Fan drops her shoulders and step closer to the banister, wondering what sort of trick Alphonse was surely planning--

Instead of clapping his hands together, Alphonse simply sets two fingers against the pulse in his wrist. He closes his eyes and thinks about Teacher’s words. _We don’t draw the symbols of creation or destruction._ _We replace it with our thoughts and willpower._

“You better make a move!” Ling cries out, preparing to swing his sword. At the last moment, he’ll pin him in a non-lethal takedown (after all, they were friends) when the sensation of electric tremors in the sword hilt return.

Alphonse opens his eyes. He separates his hands, fingers splayed and face illuminated with the lightning that manifests from his body as easy as shadows in the presence of light. He takes several, deliberate steps backwards, and Ling lands a few strides ahead of him.

The static electricity in the air makes it difficult to hold the carbon fiber with each passing second, and Ling switches the sword to the other hand.

An acrid, biting smell fills the air again. Then with a flick of the alchemist’s wrist, the lightning bolts sink into the reformed ground and carves a grid of the pulsing, blue light. Ling doesn’t miss the way the light creates a circle around him.

The lightning crackles upwards, splintering and spreading, and in the moment before it condenses to flames, then to steam, Ling dives forward through the transmutation. He shifts to a two-handed grip on the sword and warily scans the arena, now filled with billowing steam. The edges of his sleeves are smouldering. The wraps on his hands and wrists loosen with the sudden humidity and Ling decides to rip it away.

He doesn’t see Alphonse, so he reaches out for the _chi_. Ling senses Lan Fan and May Chang first, and then the chimeras. The young alchemist surely had a _chi_ when he returned to his physical body, except-- except the only other _chi_ Ling could identify in the room was the Dragon’s Pulse, the energy that flows through Xing.

The Dragon’s Pulse seems a little brighter, a little more defined, and no longer contained to just an existence in the rivers, the earth, the warmth of the sun.

Some of the steam dissipates and Ling spies Alphonse, whose hands are still up and outstretched. The last of his lightning flickers into thin air. Alphonse’s _chi_ didn’t just overlap with the Dragon’s Pulse; it emboldens the presence of the land’s energy in terms of both tectonic and natural flow.

“Alphonse!” Lan Fan shouts from the galley, her frame contorted with anger and concern. “Be more careful!”

“Don’t worry, Lan Fan,” Ling says.

“It’s my duty to worry!”

Then Ling looks at Alphonse. “You did promise not to electrocute me.”

“I won’t forget.” Alphonse’s voice is cool and steady, and the concentration on his face doesn’t waver. He bears none of his brother’s hot headed temper in combat. The Xing emperor drops his gaze.

The lightning bolts had sliced the ground in a pattern of lines and circles, and covered every inch of the arena floor. It reminded him of alkahestry arrays, though without rhyme or reason. Ling guesses that the marks acted like tripwires: one wrong step, and he might find himself encircled in lightning or steam again.

But Alphonse doesn’t wait for Ling to activate the traps.

A flick of his hand condenses the space right behind Ling, forcing him to reflexively leap forward and avoid the sudden explosion of hot steam. He jumps to a sliver of floor unmarked by the alchemist’s transmutation lines and scans his surroundings. He won’t have the force behind his attacks thanks to the situation’s demand for a lighter, careful step.

No time to think. Alphonse has already sent another gust in his direction. It happens a few more times when Ling turns to leap forward and finds his path blocked by a blanket of steam. Alphonse had predicted his movements, figured the next safe spot Ling would try for, and prevented his escape.

There’s no time to slow down, so Ling just crosses his arms and dives through the vapor, hoping that he lands in the clear. He distantly hears Lan Fan shout, and he wants to reassure her, he wants to call out--

The moment he passes through the white steam, the air crackles with ozone again.

Ling braces for the steam’s boiling heat or an electric shock, but when he passes through, the condensation dissipates as quickly as it had appeared. Ling rolls to a stop and the blue lights fade from the arena. Breathing hard from the anticipation, he slowly looks up. Alphonse kneels, and Ling tenses for the next attack, skin still crawling with electricity.

All Alphonse does is gently smooth over the lines, once again making the floor smooth and whole, save for the telltale transmutation marks. It seems evident that the alchemist emerged victorious this time.

“I guess if anyone else was caught in the lightning,” Ling remarks, trying to steady his breathing, “you’d shock them until their heart stopped, huh?”

“In theory. I don’t really want to hurt anyone.” Alphonse shrugs. “I didn’t work on my alchemy to only fight. I want to build, I want to reshape, I want to do everything else. Three years ago, I would have thought differently.”

Ling sheathes the sword to its scabbard and shakes the pins-and-needles sensation from his hands. “Three years ago, everything was different. We did what we had to, for the sake of our countries and our families.”

There’s a silent understanding born from being the midst of a nation’s turmoil. Alphonse had known a shred of violence as a child, when the Ishvalan war tore through the countryside; and he couldn’t call the loss of his body an act of cruelty, no, not while he’d knowingly tampered with the laws of nature. The war in his life had been hurled all at once at the soft, golden boy.

As for Ling Yao, the crown prince-- well, violence was a subtle, yet constant motif in his life. His youth was intermittent with assassinations and lessons on how to survive long enough to see the next dawn. Even after the Promised Day, when the Elric brothers got to be kids again, Ling had another, more familiar challenge waiting at home.

“I’ve never seen an alchemist fight without clapping their hands together,” Ling remarks, standing up and removing the last of the smoking bandages from his hands. He tosses them to the side, and wanders over to Alphonse.

“I focus on my heartbeat,” Alphonse says, tapping his chest. “It’s a technique that I’ve been practicing for the past few years.”

“It’s impressive. You would catch your opponents off guard.”

“I’ll still take up that offer to teach me how to fight.”

“Done.” Ling sticks out a hand, and Alphonse shakes it. The alchemist’s eyes drop for half a second, and then widen in shock. “Ling? Are those--?”

The back of the emperor’s hand is covered in transmutation marks.

“Ah,” Ling says. “I can explain.”

* * *

He successfully evades the topic until after the private dinner banquet. Alphonse finds it hard to confront and interrogate his friend when it seems clear, that he would rather talk in a more private setting. In addition, Ling rewraps his hands before exiting the arena; he doesn’t want anyone else to see the strange marks.

They talk about Alphonse’s new nickname as the Heartbeat Alchemist, to which Ling and May express their genuine admiration, then his and the chimera’s travel plans for the rest of their stay. They want to visit the Chang clan and their alkahestrists, so May volunteers to accompany them. The usually-jovial chimeras are serious about alkahestry as a solution to their conditions, so they decide to head to the library after dinner. May follows them.

Ling, Lan Fan, and Alphonse choose spend their early evening in the palace garden, in a spot favored by cherry blossoms and the shrine of the prior Emperor. After briefly sitting in silence to honor the dead, they dive straight into talking between sips of green tea.

“So,” Alphonse says, his heart racing and gaze lingering on the back of Ling’s hands, “how long have you had the marks?”

“Lan Fan first saw them about six months ago,” he says, nodding at the masked retainer.

“I recognized them on King Bradley when he died,” Lan Fan explains. Her dark eyes are downcast. “We guessed it had to do with Greed’s presence in the young lord’s body.”

“Are there any other side effects?” Alphonse asks.

“I’ve had nightmares, bouts of fatigue or nausea, and headaches.” Ling shrugs. “I can only assume the symptoms are related.”

“A few weeks before your coronation, I heard that you were very ill. Some believed it was because of the Philosopher’s Stone you brought back to Xing. I, uh, wrote to May, but she didn’t talk a lot about it.”

“I asked her to refrain from sharing,” Ling says apologetically. “I wanted to keep quiet about the illness, and I still do.”

“Even now?” His dour expression answers his question. Alphonse sighs. “I’m sorry to hear.”

“When the marks appeared, I started to worry. I considered writing to you and Ed, but thought it would be easier to explain in person.”

There’s a brief lapse in the discussion. Alphonse racks his brain, trying to recall if his father had ever journaled instances like this. Transmutation marks on non-alchemists.

He had heard from Pinako Rockbell, that when she had found Hohenheim by his wife’s grave, he was covered in transmutation marks. His golden hair was gray, and he looked old and happy in death. King Bradley had been reported to age as he faded, too. While Ling showed no sign of physical aging besides those of time, the marks should be connected to the alchemy-based presence of Greed.

The only survivors of the Homunculi presence would be Selim Bradley and Ling Yao; the former was still closely monitored as he grew into adolescence, but showed no sign of relapse. Ling seemed to be the same, with the Homunculus removed from his host.

“I’ve seen the marks before,” Ling admits, swirling the gritty dregs in his cup.

With the way Lan Fan stiffens, Alphonse guesses it’s the first time she’s heard of this, too. “When?”

“When--” Ling sets his jaw. “When Father ripped Greed out of me, I refused to let go of his soul. I wouldn’t let him go.  It felt like I was being dissolved, or chipped away, and dragged along with the rest of the souls. The longer I held on, these marks started to appear on my hands and my arms. Greed knew--”

Ling and Alphonse flinch as a horrifying crunching noise fills the air.

Lan Fan had crushed the porcelain teacup in her mismatched hands. She hurls the shards to the side, and she puts her head in her hands. “And I knew you’d be angry with me,” Ling tells her softly, “so I didn’t tell you.”

For what feels like an eternity, Lan Fan merely sits there, shoulders shaking. Neither of them know if she’s crying or seething with rage.

Alphonse switches his gaze from the emperor to his bodyguard, completely terrified of saying the wrong thing. This seems like a personal matter, and Ling looks over at him. “Thanks, Alphonse,” he says quietly. “We’ll catch up later.”

The alchemist nods, sets down his cup, and leaves as quickly as his feet will take him. He’ll find May or Jerso and Zampano elsewhere, settle down with a book or another steaming cup of tea, and dwell further on the mysterious marks. Somewhere far from here.

Ling finds another teacup for Lan Fan, then pours them each a fresh brew.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No.”

“You kept this a secret, knowing that-- that these marks were not unfamiliar.” Lan Fan reaches up and rips off the mask. Even in the growing darkness, it’s easy to see the way the garden lamps reflect on her shining eyes. “And you thought-- you knew I’d be upset to learn about risking your life--”

“Of course,” Ling says, half-stunned. “If I told you that I had gambled the crown, my life, our entire purpose for coming to Amestris for the sake of a sin, I imagined you would be furious.”

“My lord, as someone who is sworn to protect you, and your sister, it worries me to think that you would not feel comfortable to share the truth. It _frightens_ me.”

“That was not my intention.”

She grits her teeth and shuts her eyes. There’s so much Lan Fan wants to say. Ling wants to ask her to speak her mind, but it is not within his right to coax traitorous words from Lan Fan and endanger her loyalty. Tradition takes away her voice, and Ling hates it.

“I understand,” Lan Fan says finally, and replaces the mask and cowl. “It is your personal decision to share sensitive information with your subjects.” Like flipping a switch, she’s emotionless again. The bodyguard returns to what she knows: substituting her feelings with honor-bound duty. It’s not always a successful transition, but at least she can hide her misery behind a veil.

“Lan Fan, I--”

“It would be wise to retire inside, Your Highness. You still must prepare for tomorrow morning’s meeting.”

* * *

The radio by the windowsill is dialed to a news station, talking about a media controversy between two distant clans separated by a huge mountain range. Alphonse pays very little attention to the noise, or the cooling tea on his nightstand, wholly focused on his father’s journals. Leatherbound and well-loved, they were Hohenheim’s best traveling companions next to the five hundred thousand Xerxes souls.

Some of the other textbooks were from trade and thrift shops. Alphonse had always lamented about how most of their resources were destroyed in the house fire. He thinks, sometimes Edward would feel the same way, especially with how often the previous government controlled the distribution of alchemic knowledge. However, neither brother would ever admit it.

May knocks lightly on the door. “Al? Can I come in?” Like Alphonse, she changed to more comfortable clothes with the onset of night; half of her braids are undone. Shao Mei clings to her black hair.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to talk.”

Alphonse gestures to the duvet. The princess closes the door behind her, then sits on the edge of the bed, her back to him. She continues to unbraid the rest of her hair, quiet and pensive. The panda runs over to Alphonse and nestles up on his shoulder. May finally says, “So Lan Fan is really upset, huh?”

“It looked like it.” He had gone straight to the library and told May and the chimeras about what had happened. “You know them best. Can anything really divide them?”

“Just because they’re close doesn’t mean they can’t be upset. I think Ling should have known that Lan Fan would find out sooner or later.” May’s hands pause. “You would think that he doesn’t care about having night terrors or transmutation marks on his skin.”

Alphonse turns a journal page and finds a sketch of the flask used to trap the original Homunculus. He suppresses a shiver at the thought of the bloated, monstrous shape, resembling a bastardization of Truth; it had been covered in eyes, and an evil grin, and the stench of arrogance. He glances up at May, and wonders if she also dreams about the Homunculus who so desperately wanted power.

May finally finishes the last of the braids and combs her hands through her long, wavy hair. She breathes a sigh of relief. “Maybe you’ll find something in your books,” she says to Alphonse. “Something that explains all of this.”

“It’s like there are all these jigsaw pieces, and we don’t know what to do with them. All we have is Ling’s symptoms: his marks, his nightmares, and his pain.”

“And a faded _chi_ ,” May adds. Seeing his puzzled reaction, she turns around and seats in a criss-cross position. “All right. When I first told you about the Dragon’s Pulse, I described it as an energy that flows through the land. And it’s not just in Xing; the Dragon’s Pulse exists everywhere, and in each person.”

She holds out her hands, and Alphonse takes them.

“Close your eyes. I know that you use your own heartbeat for alchemy, but try to look beyond yourself.” May takes a deep breath. “Those who study the flow are aware of the natural energies inside of other individuals. We manipulate the _chi_ because it can heal physical wounds.”

“What does a faded _chi_ do?”

“In Ling’s case, it doesn’t seem to do anything. It’s like if you see embers where a bonfire once was. A flower that was once in full bloom, and now has wilted leaves. Nothing is missing; everything is still there.”

“You can quantify the amount of _chi_ someone has?” Alphonse asks.

“Huh. I hadn’t thought about it like that.” May thinks for a moment. “Once you’re familiar with the energy flow in other people, you will notice if someone’s _chi_ is wrong. But you are right: we cannot measure how much _chi_ someone has.”

Alphonse slowly opens his eyes. He thinks that if he focuses less on his own heartbeat, he feels much more aware of May Chang. Beyond the perceived personality, he senses what could be her _chi_. Soft and gentle, like the flowers embroidered in her hair. Bittersweet independence within a young girl who risked everything in a search for immortality, and instead found a family.

He thinks, maybe, that the princess has a soul of _hope_.

( _What a sentimental thought,_ Alphonse thinks to himself, _just as sentimental as someone being called the Heartbeat Alchemist_.)

“I don’t want to leave without figuring out what’s wrong with Ling,” Alphonse says quietly, and May opens her eyes. “This is more important than any research.”

“Jerso and Zampano said the same thing,” May says. “They wanted to tell you tomorrow, to think it over.”

“With Lan Fan’s help, I’m sure that we can help Ling. Even if he seems oblivious to his symptoms. Is there a place where all six of us can get together and talk, somewhere private?”

May nods. “There’s an old war room in the library. I can ask Lan Fan to make sure it’s secure.” She finally lets go of Alphonse’s hands, and coaxes Shao Mei to jump into her arms. “And once all of this is over, you’ll start your research, and I can start teaching you about alkahestry.”

* * *

Before Lan Fan went to accompany Ling with his morning errands, she had confirmed that the room May had suggested was indeed deal for their meetings. She promised to bring Ling once he was finished; she made no mention of what transpired after Alphonse had left them in the garden.

Alphonse and May had gone ahead and pinned the alchemist’s personal notes on the walls, covering old maps and charts of Xing. Alphonse feels like a general, making a plan of attack as he scans the collage of alchemy. Soon, the chimeras join them. “Should we go ahead and start?” he asks to May.

“Might as well. Whatever we figure out, we can tell Ling and Lan Fan when they arrive.”

Jerso and Zampano agree. “So what’s wrong with the king?” asks the sandy-haired ex-soldier.

“We know that ever since Ling returned to Xing, he has had night terrors, headaches, nausea, and a faded _chi_ , or a life essence,” Alphonse says. The chimeras nod in understanding; their reading with alkahestry had taught them some advanced basics on the flow of _chi_ and Dragon’s Pulse.

“We know that just holding a Philosopher’s Stone doesn’t harm humans,” Jerso says thoughtfully.

Zampano rubs his chin. “And Ling is physically fine, so it couldn’t be an assassination plot, poison or otherwise.”

Alphonse nods as he listens to them rule out the possibilities. He turns to his notes, flicks his wrist, and a lightning bolt arcs through the air and neatly slices a couple of inkstained papers. They drift to the floor, eliminated from the discussion. “The transmutation marks on Ling’s hands are signs of alchemy. We’ve seen them on humans who used to have Stones inside of them.”

“Except Ling doesn’t have Greed anymore,” Zampano points out.

“Right. But remember Ling told me last night. When the original Homunculus tried to extract the Stone from Ling, there was a sort of tug-of-war for Greed. Ling said that the longer he held on to Greed, the more his body started to show the marks.”

“Was it his physical body? Or the mental projection of himself?”

The alchemist snaps his fingers. “You’re right, Jerso. It was all in his mind, or wherever the souls resided.”

Another lightning strikes the wall, scorching a new, charred lines on a paper.

“So it was his soul that was being transmutated. Greed, along with the rest of the Stone’s souls were being dragged out of his physical body. In terms of one of his symptoms, the faded _chi_ , let’s assume some of Ling’s soul was also removed.” Alphonse turns to May, his eyebrows raised. “And?”

“And we can’t quantify, or measure one’s _chi_ ,” she says slowly. “So even if it was just a small fragment--”

“Even if it was just a shred of his soul--”

“--we couldn’t know for sure. But then where did it go?”

“Father’s intention was to take souls, not destroy them. The fragment of Ling’s soul would have gone with Greed!”

Alphonse and May stare at each other, his golden and her brown eyes wide with realization. Everything was assumed; there was no surefire way to confirm or deny their outspoken thoughts. Even so-- after three years of night terrors, dodging the country’s attention, and keeping secrets from the court and their friends, were they finally making a breakthrough?

“I’m sorry,” Zampano interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But didn’t Greed float off and disintegrate into nothingness?”

“Greed and his father originated from the divine being known as the Eye of God. And the thing is--” Without taking his eyes off May, Alphonse says grimly, “You _can’t_ destroy the Eye of God.”

He’s going through every conversation he’d ever had with Truth. Self-reflection with the smoky figure helped him reach this moment in the mystery; and yet, Alphonse still wonders if there were consequences for merely quoting the truth. He wants to grab May’s hands and ask her to promise to never, ever be complicit in human transmutation. Alphons doesn’t know if his warnings will only spur her curiosity.

Alphonse finally breaks away, and he picks up one of the handwritten notes stuffed in the pages of a textbook.

“These,” Alphonse gestures to the pencil sketches, “are known as the Gates of Truth. When an alchemist does human transmutation, they are brought to the other side of the Gate and gain knowledge in exchange for a sacrifice. This truth is also controlled by the Eye of God.”

“But Greed _died_ \--”

“I don’t think that a soul can die,” Alphonse admits, drawing back from the table. He wraps his arms around himself, ignoring the way cobalt blue light crackles as he paces, hissing in time with his heartbeat. “So what happens to the soul after death--”

He stops.

And he knows.

“The soul transcends this plane,” Alphonse says in a hollow voice, “and in my personal experience, it goes to the one where Truth and the Gate reside. If Greed-- if Greed’s soul ‘died’ without a host or a physical form, then he, his father, and the rest of his siblings must have returned to the Eye of God.”

May picks up the sketch of the Gate. She struggles to keep the tremor out of her voice. “So Ling’s soul… is in _here_?”

* * *

On the other side of the building, as court advisors and clan leaders exit the fine dining room, their beards and collars dotted with cake crumbs, and hands sticky with jam, they bring loud laughter and congratulations. It seems with the onset of the new emperor and his decrees, there is less pressure for a clan to outperform its competitors; time and time again, Emperor Yao has made it clear that he only cares about progress and cooperation.

The brilliant morning light shines through the windows and falls on their multicolored robes; rich reds, mellow oranges, a splash of an emerald not unlike the Amestrian flags. Yet, none notice the way the hallway shadows fail to bend to the light.

One of those shadows reaches out and catches the door before it closes completely. The palace guests and advisors have been taught to not to look back, that it’s a sign of weakness or fear, so they miss the way the shadow enters the dining room.

Emperor Yao looks up, pausing momentarily as he unbuttons the frog buttons on his collar. “Ah, Lan Fan,” he greets. “Sit down. Take off the mask.” She obliges, eyes roaming the room and the servers who whisk out of the room with the leftover breakfast dishes. Ling looks longingly after the platters of croissants, muffins, eggs, sausages, and other Western foods. “I hate breakfast meetings. I can’t eat and talk politics at the same time.”

“So you haven’t eaten?”

“Not yet.” Ling winks conspiratorially at Lan Fan. “I took the liberty of ordering a couple of dishes to enjoy before we talk to Alphonse and the others.”

The dining table quickly fills with more food-- this time, more Xing-centric dishes like steamed buns, congee, tofu with vegetables, and a platter of traditional almond cookies, like the ones from the Chang clan. To Lan Fan’s surprise, she has a empty plate and utensils placed in front of her.

“When’s the last time we had a proper meal together?” asks Ling.

Lan Fan hesitates, then begrudgingly accepts the food, or what she realizes is a peace offering. She watches Ling pick up his chopsticks and start to pile a heap of sliced pork. She reaches for the pot and pours them fresh cups of tea. “Not recently.”

“Then this is long overdue.”

Lan Fan and Ling eat in silence. The bodyguard thinks that somewhere between the emperor’s constant meetings and his late-night tendency to snack, there surely was a time when they ransacked in the kitchen for any sort of dessert. She glances over to Ling, then away. “You covered up the marks on your hand.”

“I didn’t want our guests to notice. Hopefully, Alphonse will have some ideas on its origins.” Ling picks up his napkin and wipes the makeup off his hands, revealing the methodical cracks on his pale hand. “ Listen, I thought about what you said last night. I don’t want to do anything else without talking with you.”

“My lord, I merely expressed my concern. Regardless of what I spoke, it is in your power to do or say whatever you wish.”

“If so,” Ling declares, “then I have all the power to say that I’m sorry, Lan Fan.”

She’d been stirring a bowl of congee, and there’s a soft _clink!_ of the spoon as she pauses the motion. Lan Fan opens her mouth to speak, perhaps to apologize for his mistakes. Instead, what comes out is the truth. “All night,” the bodyguard says slowly, “All night, I wondered what I could have done to create your hesitation to tell me.”

“You did nothing wrong,” Ling says immediately.

Lan Fan shrugs. “I do not think the fault lies elsewhere. It is in my nature to be protective and to watch over you. I’m supposed to shield you from harm. Besides, you were right to assume I would be upset.” Her voice is small and uncertain. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Ling has an answer ready; it’s not a great one, nor is it kind. He thinks, however, Lan Fan would prefer the honesty.

He reaches over and gently touches her wrist, coaxing her gaze upwards. “I made the decision to not tell you, because I thought it would be more fuel to this shitstorm. For so long, you struggled with my nightmares and weakness, and-- and at the time, I thought I was protecting you. Then, as the months passed, I thought it was easier to keep it a secret.”

“I would have found out sooner or later, my lord.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I promise I won’t hurt you again.”

Lan Fan reaches out with her free hand, the automail one, and toys with one of the peonies on the dining table, supposed to bring riches and honor. Her metal hand can’t feel anything so light, so delicate, so Lan Fan pulls away before she has a chance to bruise the delicate petals. “Yes, my lord,” she says finally.

“I mean it. Beyond this whole emperor and retainer charade--”

“I understand, Ling,” she says, keeping her eyes level with him.

He’s too stunned to reply.

“Thank you for the meal. It reminds me of breakfast in the Yao compound.”

“Yeah. I thought it was a nice break from Western food and banquet dinners.” Ling clears his throat, and takes the initiative to pour them a fresh cup of tea. Lan Fan returns to her porridge, and he starts to attack the almond cookies. He makes sure to ask the chef to set some aside for the others. “Take your time. I’m sure that Alphonse and the others can afford to wait. And I’ve craving something sweet. Do you want coffee?”

They trade cups of calm tea for bitter coffee, then adding thick condensed milk and stirring.  “Can I ask,” Lan Fan says, looking more at ease than she has in days or even weeks, “what happened after you saw these marks, when you were fighting to hold on to Greed?”

Ling mumbles around a sticky spoon between his lips. “Mmm. Greed tricked me into letting go, so I wouldn’t be pulled out of my own body.”

“How?”

“Mmm. He punched me in the face.”

“What?”

“It’s true. I lost my grip on his soul. And then,” Ling continues, tapping his fingers on the rim of his drink, “And then he told me that you had a Philosopher’s Stone, and there was no need for him anymore. He returned to his father, turned him into… and well, you know the rest.”

He and Lan Fan eventually, finally wind up at the archives room, entering to find May furiously taking notes from a book bigger than her head, and the chimeras puzzling over a book on alchemy. They find that the Amestrian craft is much more difficult to understand, in comparison to alkahestry’s easy emphasis on natural flow.

“Where’s Alphonse--?” Lan Fan asks, then stops as May places a finger to her lips.

With his chin tucked to his chest, Alphonse is fast asleep on the floor under Zampano’s jacket. Shao Mei curls up next to his head of gold hair, and she purrs contentedly. “He’s sleeping?’ Ling whispers, gently setting his coffee down on the table. “I thought we were supposed to have a meeting.”

“I don’t know,” May replies, clutching her pen tightly. “He said he’d take a short nap.”

While there was no guarantee that Alphonse would confront the truth whenever he closed his eyes and slept, he would be willing to take the chance. No sooner does he close his eyes, he sees the white landscape that used to bring dread, then calm, and now anticipation.

* * *

“How do I help my friend?” he asks to the seated, shapeless figure.

“You don’t have all the clues yet,” Truth says simply. “You cannot ask for the solution without understanding the components of the problem. You are trying to make a product without the proper reactants.”

He barely pays attention to the clothes he wear in this dream, the same outfit he wore upon returning to Resembool after the Promised Day: formal wear that someone, maybe one of the generals or majors had lent him. It hangs off his lean frame, hiding a permanent gauntness. “That’s it? I have to just keep looking for more puzzle pieces?”

“No, you have to draw conclusions from what you know, Alphonse.” It smiles. “One step at a time.”

* * *

The alchemist snaps awake, the feeling of falling zipping through his whole body. He groans.

“Everything all right?” Ling asks, peering over from his seat.

Alphonse sighs. “Morning, Ling. I’m fine. I just needed to think about stuff.” He stands, hands back the borrowed coat, and then he glances at May. “Did you tell him?”

“I wanted to let you explain.”

Ling and Lan Fan feel the rest of the room watching them closely. The emperor tries his best not to look bothered, instead focusing on his half-finished coffee. Alphonse resumes his spot at the front of the room. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and starts to summarize their previous notes. The two pay close attention and say nothing until the end.

To everyone’s surprise, it is the taciturn Lan Fan who speaks up. “I want to make sure I understand,” she says quietly, “but you’re saying that part of the young lord’s soul was absorbed by the one known as Father. How do you know that it followed Greed’s soul, and not within Father?”

“It has to be,” Ling answers first. “I know that it has to be.”

“My lord, are you absolutely sure?”

“I tried my hardest to hold on to Greed.” Ling holds up his hands, the marks vivid under the ceiling lights. “I would have gone with Greed and his Stone, wherever he went.”

“In the end, both Greed and Father would have ended up in the Eye of God,” May says. “Lan Fan, you once mentioned that Ling would talk whenever he had nightmares. What would he say?”

“Sometimes the young lord talks about being in a dark, black room,” she says, ignoring the way Ling turns to stare. Lan Fan knew that he didn’t care to ask about his dreams, or that they were insignificant and did not offer answers. Now, what with everything cast in a new light, he listens with alarm. “He can hear and feel, but unable to see anyone or where he is.”

“He sees the surroundings of where his _chi_ is,” Alphonse says. “When my soul tried to reconnect with my physical body, it felt like I was transported to this world of white, where I could see my body. The stress could manifest in the symptoms of nausea and headaches.”

“The young lord also talked about a world of white, too.”

“Really? Did he ever talk about seeing a gate? Or a figure?”

“No. Much more often, it was the darkness.”

Alphonse fixes his golden gaze on Lan Fan. “I suppose it could be suppressed memories,” he theorizes quietly. “Especially because, in order to return to the Eye of God, the Gates would have to open.” He whirls around and starts to adjust his notes with a flick of his wrist and an array of bolts.

“Ling, you’re not an alchemist,” Jerso abruptly points out.

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Then why would you even see a Gate? Unless it wasn’t your Gate, and it was Greed’s. Or Father’s.”

“But it doesn’t makes sense,” Lan Fan finally exclaims, voice rising in the small room. Her hands ball into fists. “Ling Yao is not an alchemist, and he has not participated in any sort of human transmutation. If these Gates and this Truth are supposed to manage a fair exchange, why did it take more than was necessary?”

Everyone stares.

“Say that again,” May whispers.

She turns her gaze to the warrior princess. “Why did it take his soul,” Lan Fan says, “when it gave _nothing_ in return?”

* * *

Alphonse thinks, if Truth could ever look uncomfortable, it would be like this. The white figure has its arms crossed across its broad, crooked chest and constantly shifts its weight. The smile is there, but much smaller and less demanding that Alphonse’s smirk.

“I _knew_ there was a reason that you brought me here. Alchemists don’t suddenly have conversations with a divine being like yourself unless there was something wrong. Like an unequivalent exchange.” Alphonse strides forward for the first time, instead of retreating before the faceless figure. “The Eye of God took something that doesn’t belong here.”

“So we come full circle.” Truth hums. “Do you like being on the other side of the mirror? Being the one to state what can and what cannot be allowed?”

“You took my entire body. You took my brother’s leg, and then his arm. You took my teacher’s insides, and the general’s sight, and it wasn’t even his fault--”

“Your point?” Truth says dryly.

“I couldn’t imagine being anything like you,” Alphonse shoots back.

“You two boys wanted too much,” Truth says coldly, “and you gave too little, so I took what was _mine_. The same applied to your teacher, and though against his own wishes, the general. If you push too hard against the natural laws, it’s going to rebound, and it’s going to have consequences.”

It shakes his head.

“Enough. You can be angry, Alphonse, and you can be upset. It does not change what happened, or what is the current challenge. You have to bring back your friend’s soul from beyond the gate.”

Alphonse had entered the landscape so confidently, eager to show Truth’s hypocrisy and injustice. Now he just wraps his arms around himself and sighs. “The marks will spread, won’t they? We have to solve this before another couple of years pass by, and who knows what will happen then.” He looks up. “Do you know how to bring back Ling Yao’s soul?”

“I do.”

“Will you tell me?”

“I can.” Truth pauses. “But are you sure you want this? If I tell you how to fix this cross-dimensional problem, what are _you_ willing to sacrifice?”

“How is this about _me_ making a sacrifice?”

“This method of pulling a soul out of the Eye of God--” Truth snaps its fingers in vindication. “Am I supposed to let you run around with that kind of alchemy without something in return?” It steps around Alphonse, sliding into the space between him and the Gates.

It’s justified: the knowledge that Truth offers is beyond his current skills, and would remain with him for the rest of his days as an alchemist.

Alphonse reaches for his pulse and thinks it over. “If you only approached me so that I could realize what was wrong with Ling,” he starts slowly, “why would you help me with this heartbeat alchemy?”

“Help you? All I did was hold to my word,” Truth replies. “I do not share beyond what you know. Though it takes you months, and years, to discover your innate skills, the most I offer is a different perspective. And you can’t just talk to just anyone. It has to be someone who knows alchemy, someone who knows how the natural laws work, someone who knows _you_.”

“Comprehension.”

“Hmm?”

“Comprehension is the first step of alchemy.” His heart is pounding so loudly, that it’s all Alphonse can hear in this landscape. He pushes past Truth, and walks up to the Gate. Just like his older brother did once, he places his palms against the heavy stone doors. But this time, there are no sparks of lightning, no sign of destruction.

Alphonse pulls away from his Gate of Truth.

“Not willing to sacrifice your alchemy?” Truth jeers, its smile once again full and devious.

“I look up to Ed,” Alphonse says, “and I admire him. We’ve both made sacrifices for each other, but we are not the same person. I… I would give up the progress that I’ve made since the Promised Day.”

Truth leans forward curiously. “Explain.”

“Three whole years of learning how to do this--” Alphonse extends his fingers and watches as the lightning crackles and leaps from his skin, leaving nothing but a faint tingling sensation. He takes a deep breath, and withdraws the energy back into his body. Electrical currents, blood circulation, nerves, veins-- it’s all connected. “Three years of progress, of redefining my alchemy. If you give me information, you can take back what I already know.”

“Do your friends know? Do they know how much you’ve struggled to achieve this sort of power? You didn’t just wake up and perfect your one-of-a-kind alchemy. How will the loss delay your research?”

“It doesn’t matter if they know,” Alphonse answers. “Or if I have to start all over again, even if it takes me twice as long, or if I never figure it out again. Will you take my sacrifice?”

Suddenly, Truth throws back its head and laughs. “I have an even better offer,” it crows. “Instead of giving up your progress, I’ll take _this_.” It starts to circle around again, stretching its arms wide. “No more conversations about circles or circulation, or what is and what isn’t the candid truth.”

Alphonse’s heart skips a beat. “You mean--”

“Provided that you remember what it feels like to be stripped of your entire physical form, we will _never_ have to see each other again. Time for you to find another way to wrangle all these thoughts in your head.” Truth lowers its arms, then sticks out a hand. “Knowledge for knowledge.”

Without hesitation, the alchemist grabs Truth’s hand and shakes firmly. He swears that he can hear, or feel the thunderous groan of the Gate opening, but Alphonse doesn’t tremble with fear. Nothing drags him to the abyss of memories and sacrifice, nothing demands his flesh and blood.

And while it ultimately reminds him of a soul in an empty suit of vintage armor, as long as he remains an alchemist, the truth will never truly disappear.

Lightning leaps from the shapeless, infinite figure and cages the two of them like a whirlwind. His mind starts to flood with an array of information, too quickly and hectic to understand at the moment. Though he might not be able to exactly explain this influx of information and alchemy, Alphonse finds the answer that he’s been looking for.

“It seems so simple,” he whispers.

“At first glance, it always does. Don’t forget,” says the Truth that once stole his body, “I never shared more than you deserved to know.”

* * *

All is quiet in the royal  palace.

A handful of servants dedicate their evening routine to extinguish the gas lamps and electric lights one by one. They are the ones responsible for announcing the incoming darkness, the supposed sigh of relief that comes with nighttime. They walk through the hallways, robes smelling of smoke and oil, making sure that the only light that remains belongs to the moon, or is contained to faint candlelight under the door. The palace is mostly ruled with electric light, but the older parts of the building such as the sleeping quarters still use candles and gas.

Along with the crown, Ling inherited the separate building as his personal quarters. He prefers to retire to the main building, much more comfortable and at ease. If he ever tosses and turns, he can simply head over to his office and work, or check if May also has trouble sleeping.

It’s almost midnight when he finally sets aside the last of his letters.

He pauses. “Lan Fan?”

A velvet curtain trembles, then settles. Another shadow joins the bedroom walls, this one familiar and comforting. “At your service, my lord.”

Ling remains seated at his desk, and he drums his fingers along the armrest. Without looking at his bodyguard, he asks, “Do you think that Alphonse can really fix me?”

Lan Fan starts. “I don’t think that you are broken and in need of repair, my lord,” she replies. “You are not an object.”

“The question still stands.”

“Yes. I think Alphonse will do his best. He expresses his concern for your well-being.”

“Do you find it easier to talk more freely here, now that I serve as Xing emperor?”

“Sometimes.” Lan Fan shifts her shoulders back; the soft clink of automail accompanies the low murmur of the room’s lamps. “We refrained from discussing too much because of the eyes and ears that would watch and listen. Now you dictate which words are like treason to the throne, although respect to tradition is different matter.”

Ling stands, and wanders over to the dresser, shedding his formal attire in favor of a loose-fitting shirt and pants. Lan Fan catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and the way he flicks his eyes over to her reflection. “I trust you,” the young man says softly. “Completely and whole-heartedly. I apologize for keeping secrets from you. I don’t want to make the same mistakes… and yet, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What is the matter, my lord?”

He turns around. “I--”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish, when Lan Fan is at his side, faster than a eyeblink. She strips off her mask, and reaches up to the transmutation marks that neatly scar his neck and jawline. Lan Fan is mindful of her touch; she only uses the trembling, right hand to skim over the blemishes. “When?”

“Since you last saw me.” Ling gently takes her wrist. “I promise.”

“I believe you.” Lan Fan takes a shaky breath. “Should I call for Alphonse? Or May?”

“No. It can wait till morning. Needless to say,” he says, cracking the smallest smile, “it might spread if we don’t find my soul. Ah, see.” Ling shakes his head. “I can’t stand the way you look at me. It makes me think that I should have sought help earlier.”

“Yes, you should have,” Lan Fan huffs, looking away. It doesn’t help either of them; Ling still sees the way her gentle soul in every other aspect of the girl, besides in just her eyes-- her mismatched hands, her voice, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

He has seen Lan Fan face down hungry and wrathful Homunculi, and Ling wonders if the bravery stems from her masked kindness, or vice versa. “Well,” he says quietly, “What do we do now?”

“We wait for morning and see if Alphonse dreams of anything.” Lan Fan sighs. “It’s all we can do. I cannot protect you from your own soul.”

“This goes beyond either of our abilities.”

“Nonetheless,” she says, “I refuse to lose you.”

Years ago, in the comforts of a place he calls home, Ling hears his clan’s accusations, her silence, and the song of steel as someone draws a kunai from their robes. He knows that if he doesn’t do anything, the home and honor will be stained with an innocent’s blood. The then-prince steps in front of his bodyguard and refuses to let the execution pass.

He is furious, he is upset, and he tells this to Lan Fan, who had been ready to pay for her disservice. The loss of her grandfather nor her arm does not speak of her failures; her willingness to give up threatens her loyalty to him. _I won’t lose you too,_ Ling had sworn, the death of loved ones fresh in their minds.

Ling knows that he cannot bear the death of the girl he knows as Lan Fan. Not after her sacrifices; not after their voyage to Amestris; not while they are sworn to each other in this life, and the next.

* * *

“All right,” the Xing emperor says, “tell me again, and slowly. Alchemy is so confusing.”

Alphonse hesitates. “Which part do you need help understanding?”

“Well, you’re saying that you would pull my soul from the Gate. How?”

“No human lives required,” Alphonse says quickly, as if it would dispel Ling’s worries. “I have a list of the materials. And I have the transmutation sigils. I suppose it will be a trial and error until we produce something like your soul.”

“I’ll help him,” May says, rubbing a piece of chalk between her palms. She doesn’t mind that the dust coats her hands and sleeves. “It’ll be easier for me to identify the _chi_.”

Early this morning, when Alphonse first told May about his plan, the two had run all across the palace, gathering as much as they could. Natron, iron filings, chalk, and the like, and a quiet place to transmute. The chimeras, Ling, and Lan Fan were brought to the archives room, and were all too stunned with Alphonse’s sudden knowledge.

“The last thing I wanted was to let you sacrifice something for me,” Ling begins, but Alphonse vigorously shakes his head.

“No. It was my decision. You would have done the same for me.”

Jerso picks up one of the large jars on the table. “So you’re going to put the soul in here.”

“My father told me that in Xerxes, the royal alchemist managed to extract a bit of the Eye of God. That became the Homunculus, Dwarf in a Flask. It couldn’t survive outside of its container until it created the Philosopher’s Stone by killing everyone, four hundred years ago.”

“Then,” Lan Fan says slowly, “the soul will be essentially trapped in the container.”

“Once it’s dragged out of the Gate,” May says, “the soul might just return straight away, and he should stop having night terrors and the stress of having his soul on two different planes. The flask is like the medium, or a crossroads for coming from the Gate and going back to Ling.”

The emperor scratches his head. “All right.”

The process is not without the occasional challenge.

May knows how to read the _chi_ of the people, but it’s much more difficult to comprehend something as abstract as the Eye of God. It’s only after gazing at textbooks and drawing of this divine being, and remembering the way the original Homunculus was forcibly pulled back to its origins, does she finally scrape the surface of the Gate.

Alphonse wants to ask Truth for advice, then he scolds himself such wishful thinking. Instead, he tosses ideas aloud to May and the chimeras, who bounce back their own opinions and perspective on the matter. Jerso and Zampano, already tired of being cooped up in the palace, volunteer to go into the city and gather the rest of the necessary ingredients.

Ling and Lan Fan, as usual, have their royal responsibilities.

After a few hours, May suddenly sits upright in her seat. He’d been nodding off, but he immediately snaps awake. “What is it?” he demands, eyes wide with alarm. May is pale and she shakes her head, like she’s chasing bad thoughts away.

“The Homunculi,” she murmurs. “All of them. They’re all in there.”

Alphonse knew this, but the thought makes his shiver as well. To actually reach out and find their souls waiting in the darkness of the Gates-- he sets a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No, Al,” she says, leveling her gaze with him. “I think I found Ling. But...”

“But what?”

“He’s--” May slots her hands together, interlacing the fingers. “It’s--”

* * *

Alphonse runs his hands through his cropped hair, and he sighs. He’d been staring at his notes for the better part of an hour, mind racing to account for unforeseen variables. Alchemy is easy for him; it’s just logic. It makes sense that with the power of a Philosopher’s Stone, the Dwarf in the Flask could survive out of its container, and away from the Eye of God.

Because Ling’s soul was returning to its origins, there was no similar need for a Stone.

“We can’t just let his soul remain in the Gate,” Alphonse says to May. “The transmutation marks, the nightmares, and the headaches-- they’re just going to get worse.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“May, when Greed came back in Ling’s body, he didn’t know who he used to be. He couldn’t remember either Ed or me.”

“I was there,” she says, a little sharper than she’d intended. “I remember.”

“Is that a risk we’re willing to take? Plus, if Greed’s soul is combined with Ling’s, then both of them will be trapped in the flask.” Alphonse sighs. “Unless…”

“Unless we use the Philosopher’s Stone,” May finishes. She stares blearily at the rows of flasks. “Lan Fan is not going to be happy.”

“At least you confirmed that Ling is in the Gate.” Alphonse manages a smile. She returns the tired grin. “Good job.” 

The door swings open, and the emperor and Lan Fan enter, immediately shedding their respective jackets and mask reserved for the public. “Half the council advisors reported feeling ill,” Ling rattles off, “And the last thing we need is the entire palace to come down with the flu. At least we’ll have a few, quiet days without any meetings.”

He sits down heavily at the table and crosses his arms.

May and Alphonse look at each other.

“What is it?” asks Ling.

“We found your soul,” Alphonse says nervously, “but there’s a complication.”

“It’s-- it’s fused with Greed,” May says, all in a rush, and she grits her teeth. The elders are too caught off guard to say anything, so she plows ahead. “When you two were in the same body, it was easy to tell whose _chi_ was in control. In the Eye of God, there’s no clear way to separate you from him. I mean, at the moment, I couldn't find a way. Should we go ahead and bring both of you back?”

“You should do it.” Lan Fan looks directly at Ling.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Ling flicks his gaze over to the other two. “Could you give us a minute?” May and Alphonse nearly trip over each other as they scramble out of the room, eager to seek fresh air, and to give them privacy. The emperor bites his lip as he studies the glass flasks of varying sizes and widths. “What are the implications of bringing Greed back?”

“Well,” Lan Fan begins, “the court might demand to know why you have a Homunculus in a flask. Secondly, will he interfere with your responsibilities as emperor?”

“You have to ask?”

“I do, because I know how close you two were,” she replies, though gently, “and I remember his avarice. Do you still mean to rule with him at your side, co-rulers of Xing? Or is he meant to stay bottled in a jar, for the rest of his immortal life?”

“Then why do you agree with this? There might be another way, one that May hasn’t found yet.”

Lan Fan smiles sadly. “No, my lord. There might not be enough time before you’re covered in transmutation marks. Alphonse refuses to leave Xing until you are cured, so will you keep him here indefinitely? We have the chance now. You should take it.”

"I thought you would be the first to argue against Greed's return."

"In the moment, I will refrain from such. I care for the fact that your souls are intertwined, and that we promised to make you whole again."

At last, Ling nods.

They bring May and Alphonse back into the room, who are accompanied by the chimeras and their ingredients. Ling wastes no time with his decision: with Lan Fan at his side, he agrees that they should go ahead and perform the necessary transmutation.

Alphonse doesn’t need a recipe or directions; the knowledge is innate, as he instructs the others to measure proper amounts of each chemical, and then he draws the chalk circle on the table. “Only May needs to help me with this part,” he says, “and we should be done quickly. If there are no results within a few hours, we’ll try and try again.”

“Anything else we can do to help?” Lan Fan asks.

“Just one more thing. We need to establish a connection between this plane and the Eye of God. It would be bound to a person and their blood-- specifically you and your blood, Ling.”

Ling nods, and steps up to the table. Lan Fan presents him with a kunai. “I’ll be careful,” he says wryly to her, setting the blade against his palm. _This might not even work,_ he thinks as he watches the blood stain his skin.  _I might not get my soul back. I might not even get Greed back._

A steady trickle of blood runs down his pale hand, and into the flask not unlike the one that held the original Homunculus.

_I wonder if I missed one more than the other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi congrats that you've made it this far, this is my longest chapter yet. I believe I covered all of my loose ends with Ling's symptoms/Al's Truth.
> 
> Here is a link for [Ling's transmutation marks](https://youtu.be/60as5quUKJQ?t=1m38s) in case you don't remember Or you want a feels trip. Everything else in regards to Truth, the Homunculi, Eye of God, equivalent exchange is completely inferred. By no means do I think this is absolutely what must have happened, it's just ideally canon compliant. hell yeah


	5. Avarice in a Flask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //kicks down the door WHAT’S UP THE FINAL CHAPTER IS HERE THANKS FOR YOUR INFINITE PATIENCE
> 
> Special thanks to [acreaturecalledgreed](http://acreaturecalledgreed.tumblr.com), who beta-read a section and helped me with the flow of the dialogue (and for generally being such a neat entity!!!) Thank you ^-^
> 
> Edit: yoooooo [look at this wonderful fanart](https://twitter.com/fuckoland/status/1001969609757556742) it makes my heart all warm and i love!! thank you so much!!!

“Two questions.”

“Okay.”

“First: Why lightning?”

“It’s the most versatile. Easiest to transform into heat, which then serves as the basis for most other reactions. Next question.”

“Why are you bringing the flask?”

Alphonse shifts his grip on the flask in his arms and tries not to look at the coagulated mixture of various chemicals. While its size and presence could draw attention from palace onlookers, and Alphonse himself was reluctant to remove it from the library, the alternative could be worse.

“I don’t want to risk someone finding it.”

By May’s grim expression, she had expected such an answer. Still she regards the flask nervously, as if it could suddenly burst or shatter in his hands.

“Don’t worry,” Alphonse says. “Even if the transmutation worked, it-- or Greed can’t harm anyone.”

She forces a smile on her face. “I was just thinking about-- I once spent some time with a Homunculus trapped in a jar, remember?”

Of course, Alphonse remembers too late. The Xing princess spent weeks in the company of Envy; and he himself had spent only a few hours with Selim Bradley in a stone tomb, but the boy didn’t speak or act as cruelly as his sibling. Envy manifested as the voice in the back of your mind, whispering insecurities and fears. Though May claims otherwise, Alphonse suspects that she might have left the battlefield were it not for Envy’s coaxing.

And if May had left Amestris, and if May hadn’t returned to help-- well, no one knows what would have happened instead.

“I remember. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“It’s all right.”

They walk past a handful of guards on the night watch. Gazes follow them as they turn the corner, then May grabs Alphonse’s sleeve and tugs him forward to the kitchen. Thanks to the lengthy transmutation, they had missed supper with the others. Unlike the Rockbell’s home in Resembool, which always smelled like spices or motor oil or both, the palace kitchen is completely devoid and spotless.

“Tea?” asks May.

Alphonse lights the stovetop with a click of his fingers and May strains on her tiptoes to reach the porcelain teacups. Crackling embers warmly fill the silence. The firelight glitters and reflects off the empty flask on the slate countertop.

May discovers a basket of almond cookies and sets it down on the table with a beaming smile. She halves one of the biscuits and waves it in front of Shao Mei, who’d been blissfully napping on her shoulder. Shao Mei jerks awake, sneezes, and then takes the treat. Alphonse watches, amused.

“So,” she says, pausing in between bites of her half, “do you think Ling is going to give the Stone to Greed?”

Alphonse’s expression turns thoughtful. He’d been mulling this over for the past couple of hours as well. “It depends on whether or not his _chi_ is permanently combined with Greed. Having part of your soul in a flask is one thing. Being separated in another, completely autonomous body? One that breathes and bleeds and walks?”

They glance over to the flask and its rather pitiful presence. Alphonse knows that any visible result would take time, though his stomach twists at the thought of failing. He’d been so confident for Ling and the others. Doubt digs in its heels, refusing to leave his racing thoughts or heavy heart.

“--then there’s the matter of Zampano and Jerso,” May says, and he snaps back to attention.

“You mean separating them from their animal halves? They were looking into the art of alkahestry.”

“The Purification Arts.” The princess brushes crumbs from her hands, and pushes the rest of the cookies out of reach from the mischievous panda. “I personally think that it’s the better alternative than alchemy. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s ever been a case like this. I don’t know where to start.” She groans, and Alphonse can’t blame her.

But he tries to smile anyways. “Who knew that we’d have this many challenges?” he jokes lightly. The corners of May’s lips tug upwards. He drums his fingers on the table. “Hmm… what about simply suppressing the chimera side?”

“Sure, though there’s no guarantee that it will stay dormant.” May tilts her head. “And if we ‘kill’ the chimera part of them, it’d be like destroying a part of your person… right?”

Alphonse shrugs.

Neither of them knows how it feels to be a chimera: half-human, half-animal, and not really ruled by either ego. The thought sobers them, and Alphonse and May don’t dare to look at each other. They study the countertop, the cookie crumbs, their hands-- they are unsure, and afraid for their friends.

Jerso and Zampano might really prefer a permanent, albeit destructive method when it comes to their inhumanness.

The kettle whistles. The sound shatters the tension and the two of them breathe a unspoken, quiet sigh of relief. They would prefer to be in company of those who know better, Jerso and Zampano, and like shards of glass, they make sure not to tread on the subject any more. May drops two teabags in the cups as Alphonse carefully pours the boiling water.

“Listen,” he says slowly, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about alchemy. I know you’ve worked with the Stone. I’m not upset, except I was thinking that you probably have a Gate of Truth, which means...”

“...that I’m responsible for following your natural laws now,” May finishes glumly.

Alphonse picks up his teacup. “Think about it like this-- You’re one of a kind. An alchemist and an alkahestrist.”

“You too!”

“I haven’t done any alkahestry,” Alphonse laughs. “Not yet.”

“You start tomorrow,” May says firmly. “I promise.”

They raise their teacups and gently clink them together. Alphonse tentatively sips his drink. It’s sweet, like the chamomile brand that he had earlier in the morning. He’d love to bring Xingese tea back to Amestris and share them with Winry and Pinako. Maybe Mrs. Hughes and Elicia would enjoy them, too.

He thinks, if May ever came to visit, he would be more than happy to introduce her to all of his friends and family.

But before he has the chance to invite her, a prickling, unfamiliar sensation suddenly floods his nerves.

Although it’s so, _so_ unlike waking up from his conversations with Truth, even if it’s all Alphonse can think about. Instead of vertigo, or the sensation of falling into nothingness, out of nowhere, this alien feeling _slams_ into the amateur alkahestrist and leaves him near-breathless and gasping for breath, grasping for security--

The irregular pulse in his head thuds crazily; lightning starts to crawl along his skin in a defensive, unconscious way, and Alphonse forces himself to place his hands flat against the cool stone counter. _Concentrate, concentrate, calm your heart--_

**Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me. **

The low baritone voice slices through his symptoms. Alphonse’s golden eyes flutter open in surprise and he looks up at May, who like him, is racked with the same, unnatural not-vertigo.

“Did you hear that?” she wheezes weakly. Her face is pallid in the flickering firelight. Her hands are shaking and the porcelain teacup rattles audibly in its saucer. Alphonse manages a tight nod.

In unison, they look towards the flask with awe-- and surprisingly, dread.

A crimson mist starts to coil from the rapidly decomposing ingredients meant to summon a piece of the Eye of God-- and then it fills the entire flask. It’s unable to escape from the glass. The swirling red haze flexes and stirs angrily, then settles with an audible, frustrated sigh.

**Hey. You two.** The wispy revenant abruptly splits and reveals a blinding white eye, then another, and then a huge maw of fangs. It squints at Alphonse and May, both paralyzed and wide-eyed. Although the mouth doesn’t move, the voice sounds again-- it’s like a deep drawl that sprawls beyond the meager glass flask. **I’m not some genie in a bottle. I _don’t_ grant wishes.**

May drops her cup.

* * *

“Oh my god, Alphonse, did we--”

“I think-- Do you feel-”

“Him and the missing chi, _yes_ , absolutely--”

“And is that-- can you be sure--?”

They ignore the chamomile tea that languidly spills across the kitchen counter, and Alphonse and May crowd around the red apparition. The thing inside the flask recoils instinctively, then realize it has nowhere else to go.

**Watch it,** the voice comes again from a mouth that doesn’t move. **I don’t know how you two runts managed to summon something like me, but--**

“Greed,” Alphonse blurts out, and the voice falls silent. “Are you Greed? The same one that came from the Homunculus in the Flask? In Amestris?”

It says nothing but squints again, suspiciously eyeing Alphonse, and then May. Its gaze lingers on the warrior princess. There’s a strange look in her brown eyes-- and not the boy’s yellow ones-- that seems to search his resolve, boring into the trapped, red haze.

May searches and seeks, and she finds the answer she wants and needs.

“Hello, Greed.”

**You,** Greed growls, **you seem familiar.**

* * *

The slow, soft hiss of steel interrupts the nighttime quiet before the palace guards recognize the _chi_ heading towards them. They pause with their kunais half-drawn at their sides. The life force belongs to the emperor’s honored guest, the young man known as the Heartbeat Alchemist.

Donned in a traditional Xingese clothes with an Amestrian jacket thrown over his shoulders, Alphonse’s look of urgency only tenfolds as the guards halt his approach. _Heartbeat. This is the royal emperor’s room. What is your purpose here?_

“I must see the Royal Emperor. There was-- This is important,” he replies hastily. Alphonse nervously shifts from foot to foot. “The Chang princess is with me, she’s on her way--” The doors to Ling’s quarters are huge and imposing; they are close enough to touch.

_It is well past midnight._

“I know, but--”

The heavy chamber doors inch open. “Alphonse?”

The masked Lan Fan beckons him inside, then fixes her gaze on the rest of the palace guards. She quietly orders them to let May pass when she arrives. Ling’s private quarters are spacious and beautifully ornate, shades of yellow and red infused with the mellow candlelight and gas lamps. While Alphonse catches his breath and stares at the fantastic designs, the high-ranking retainer folds her arms patiently.

“You came just in time,” she says.

“What?” Alphonse wheezes. He straightens up. “Wait, what for?”

“The young lord had another nightmare, although different than the others. He is awake now.” Lan Fan frowns. “Did you come here for another reason?”

Alphonse hesitates. “Tell me more about the nightmare.”

She again gestures for him to follow. Lan Fan and Alphonse head to the bedroom hidden among furnished halls and sitting rooms, where the teenage emperor sits hunched over at the edge of his bed.

Ling has his head in his hands. His long, black hair is down, and his delicate cotton nightshirt is balled in one fist. Even at a distance, they can see a litany of pale and dark scars on his well-toned figure.

He scarcely looks up at their approach.

“My lord.” Lan Fan kneels next to him. She sets a careful hand on his arm, keeping the automail one tucked behind her back. “Alphonse is here.”

In his history of night terrors, Ling was unable to recall his dreams at all. Everything he seemingly experienced was relayed in delirium and blind fear. Lan Fan recited his descriptions of black and white worlds with the former much more common. She was not just his aide or bodyguard; she was his voice. Now--

“The first dream I ever had,” Ling murmurs, his face hidden, “was in a white room. There were no ceilings or floors or walls. There was nothing, except a blank stone gate. And there was someone who _smiled_ at me.”

Alphonse sinks to the ground. Lan Fan has eyes only for Ling.

“And I asked,” he continues, “I asked, ‘Who are you?’ And then it said, _I am perhaps..._ ” Ling lowers his trembling hands, though his dark brown eyes remain downcast. “ _The truth._ It was Truth. How could I forget?”

More importantly, Alphonse knows why Ling _remembers_. The final pieces to their puzzle are falling in place. “I think,” he says softly, “that will be the last of your nightmares.”

The transmutation marks on Ling’s hands and neck are stark in the candlelight as he raises his head. “You mean--”

Lan Fan, as usual, is one step ahead of the others. She hears the chamber doors open, and then she immediately senses a powerful aura alongside May’s hopeful _chi_. She doesn’t dare describe the waves of intense, unkind energy which resonates from the flask, and though it had been hastily covered with a tablecloth to keep from curious eyes, tomorrow there would certainly be talk about the strange soul haunting the halls.

Lan Fan can also identify an underlying, more intimately familiar energy that holds a whisper of promise.

The emperor’s _chi_ is in two places at once; the fragmented souls seem to bleed at the edges, reaching for one another. The bodyguard looks to the princess’s slow entrance and the flask in her arms; and then she looks over to Ling.

A question sticks in her throat.

May slows upon seeing her half-brother’s gaunt expression. Then, as realization dawns on him, he seems to transform before her very eyes. Ling fixes his gaze on the shrouded flask.

“Show us, May,” he demands softly.

The Chang princess has seen this kind of hunger reflected in their father’s gaze years ago, when he learned about the Philosopher’s Stone. This time, Ling’s eyes are desperate for an answer that is far more attainable than immortality, though equally unlikely.

His soul. His friend. One and the same.

May carefully sets the flask on the bed, and then removes the sheet.

The red mist shifts angrily in the container, extremely displeased with its imprisonment. Then Ling sees the white eyes and fangs, and he digs his nails into his palms. He would recognize that scrutinizing squint anywhere from the confines of his mind to an alchemist’s glass bottle.

“Greed the Avaricious,” Ling says hoarsely. “It’s been a while.”

At the sound of his name and title, the Homunculus blinks slowly. **I know your faces,** he mutters, **and your voices. Why are you familiar?**

Lan Fan stifles a gasp. Alchemy breaches the limits of Xingese alkahestry in ways that are difficult to comprehend or morally justify. “Do you know who we are?” she asks. “Do you know our names?”

**Care to give me a hint?** Greed abruptly snarls, the wisps turning jagged and hostile.

“I’m May Chang,” the princess says tersely. She points at the panda who is curiously watching from her shoulder. “And this is Shao Mei.”

**May. Shao Mei.**

“I’m Alphonse Elric.” He levels his gaze with Greed’s blank one. “You don’t know my face, but we first met in Dublith. Devil’s Nest. My brother is Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

A pause. **El-ric.** He snaps the last name in half.

Greed cants his eyes over to the emperor and his bodyguard. And then slowly, without prompting--

**Lan Fan.**

“Yes,” she replies. “It’s me.” Lan Fan suppresses a shiver of surprise. Here is a flask which held her emperor’s own blood; merely hours later, there exists a sin who is both dear and vexing to her.

Ling cards through his hair and pulls it into a ponytail, deftly ignoring the way his hands shake. “And me?” he asks. “Could you remember me? We only spent a few months stuck in the same body.” He reaches out to touch the flask, but Greed flinches at the sudden movement. Ling retreats and tries to look indifferent.

Could Greed remember the way the dark-eyed prince welcomed him like a host? Or how they’d howl at each other for hours? Or when memories of a city named Dublith and a bar called the Devil’s Nest flooded their sanity?

Soul and sin, never quite agreeing on shared tastes or morals or interests until they couldn’t afford to fight each other.

The first time Greed ever willingly settled back in recesses of the borrowed body, it was because Ling boasted an advantage in their fight against indulgent Gluttony. Distant from the art of alkahestry, Greed could never understand something like the Dragon’s Pulse. He recognized Ling’s superiority against the Homunculi, and yielded his power.

And then when Fu died--

\-- or when Lan Fan refused to let go of them, even with blood dripping from her automail arm and tears tracing down the yin mask--

The second and final time, it hadn’t been the question of who was better in war.

Greed refused to grieve for the murder of a man he barely knew, and silently retreated to skulk among the crimson souls as Ling took back _his_ body, _his_ thoughts, and _his_ overwhelming grief.

The Stone’s screaming souls were not loud enough to drown out the boy’s anguished pleas for help, nor his call for the immortal power he’d sought in the first place. Ling wanted to fulfill a promise. He wanted to fight. He had avarice on his side.

_Could you remember me?_

Ah, he was so unlike any other soul Greed had ever met.

Greed smirks. **Ling Yao.**

Ling blinks away the tears in his eyes. “It’s… good to see you, Greed,” he says. “It’s been quite a few years without you.”

* * *

As midnight arrives and leaves just as quickly, the four gather around the flask. Greed starts to recover his memories, slowly and surely, and he examines his friends. He at first regards Alphonse suspiciously, though eventually recognizes a familial resemblance between the golden-eyed Amestrian and his older brother.

May Chang doesn’t take her gaze off the flask during their conversation about the immediate aftermath of the Promised day. She nervously runs her fingers through the carpet threads, drawing perfect circles to keep calm.

Her mind unwillingly tracks back to her time with Envy. She wonders how the lizard-like, shrill-voiced Envy could have the same origins as this swirling, fanged mist they called Greed.

And May doesn’t know Greed personally, save for his unique chi and association with Ling. She’d met him at his worst, when he first took over the prince’s body and bowed to the whims of the other Homunculi. Then once more as she watched him fight (and lose) in the final battle.

But when May sees the way Ling’s eyes light up as he talks to avarice in a flask, she works up the courage to trust her brother’s judgement. His grin stretches ear-to-ear. May forgets that she had ever compared her brother to their previous emperor.

Lan Fan’s reaction is somewhat muted and tentative, but the others recognize the slight tilt at the corners of her lips.

Greed does his best to ignore the black-and-white panda, Shao Mei, who sniffs and paws at the glass. He revels in his father’s poetic demise, then demands to hear about Ling’s ascension. The Homunculus seems pleased that the Philosopher’s Stone had worked in their favor. It seemed as if all of that greed had paid off in the end.

“Did you know,” Lan Fan asks, “that part of the young lord’s soul is intertwined with yours? The _chi_ followed you when you were extracted from his body.”

**The _what_?**

After a brief explanation on life energies, Greed denies knowing anything about Ling’s _chi_ and its detour to the other side.

Ling rubs his hands together. “I don’t… feel any different. It might take time like our resident alchemists reported.” May and Alphonse sit to attention, eyes wide and chins tilted up.

He then shows off the transmutation marks which plagued him for the past few months. Greed presses close to the glass borders and gazes at the scars. While his expressions consist of blank eyes and an ever-grinning maw, Ling swears that something like concern fills his voice. **If you had let go, you wouldn’t have had this-- this--**

“Maybe if I did, you wouldn’t be able to return,” Ling says wryly.

Greed bristles. His voice turns hard and angry. **Return? What for? I didn’t expect surviving the Promised Day.** He checks him with newfound doubt. **This is why you brought me back? For this _chi_? **

“It’s like we explained,” Lan Fan replies calmly, and Greed swivels round to glare at her. “Part of the young lord’s _chi_ had crossed over to yours. Bringing back both of your souls was the only solution to his illness.”

The retainer hears the candor in her words; it is a truth as brutally honest as Greed’s personality, and her loyalty to the throne.

She hears, _You were collateral._

“Don’t you… want to be here?” The Homunculus scowls at the Chang princess and her soft-spoken question. She doesn’t recoil from his glower, no matter how much she shivers at his nefarious presence and ivory fangs.

“May’s right. I find it hard to believe that you enjoyed being crushed into nonexistence,” Alphonse pipes up, only distantly aware that he’s quoting some far away, half-remembered truth. He stifles a yawn. “Why _wouldn’t_ you want to come back? Now that you’re back, what do you want?”

Greed hesitates.

He’s known exactly what he wanted during his previous lives. Wealth, power, notoriety, and a reputation to behold. Once, there was all the time in the world to work towards his ambitions; the Philosopher’s Stone assured such. But now that Greed was a soul (and then some), his selfishness is limited to the borders of a glass bottle.

**I want out of this flask.**

* * *

 

A quick, but thorough investigation reveals that the illness which plagued more than half the court did not have malicious origins. Lan Fan and her masked cadre confirmed the sickness was likely benign. Those affected are quarantined and delegate their responsibilities to eager protégés.

In the meantime, to keep the palace in motion, the emperor encourages timely preparation for the upcoming mid-autumn festival.

As one of Xing’s traditional holidays, it is meant to celebrate the end of the harvest. The people return to their homes and families to eat and drink and be in good company.

It’s the morning after Greed’s return. Some managed to claim a few hours of sleep. Alphonse himself is still adjusting to the Xing day-night cycle and finds inopportune moments to fall asleep.

“Will we be able to visit your clan during the festival?” Alphonse asks May as he pours tea for her during their late breakfast.

May looks thoughtful. “Good question. Actually, we could do research and celebrate at the same time. I’ve been meaning to go back and visit my family for some time.”

“Sounds good,” Ling chirps, chin propped on one hand as he yawns. Unlike Alphonse, he didn’t sleep at all. “I’ll have an attendant arrange all of the travel details--”

He’s interrupted by the sound of tapping on the strangely-shaped glass flask. The chimeras’ awe and antics don’t last long before Greed stirs awake and snarls at them in a deep, guttural voice. **What the hell are you two doing? Don’t you have better things to do than treat me like a zoo animal?**

“Sorry,” Jerso says, although he doesn’t sound too apologetic. “You’re a lot different than we imagined. More... wispy.”

“A lot smaller,” adds Zampano.

**Just keep your hands to yourself and we’ll be peachy. Or you know what? Why don’t I just--**

“Mr Jerso and Zampano,” Ling cuts in, shooting the flask a sharp glance and receiving a scowl in return. The Homunculus angrily settles and closes his white eyes once more. “How goes your search for your original bodies?”

The chimeras look at each other, unsure who should speak first. Zampano takes the initiative. “We don’t have much of a lead. Xing texts and scrolls don’t mention human chimeras.”

“Xingese mythology has animal chimeras like unicorns and manticores,” Jerso offers, picking at his breakfast, “which are combinations of lions, eagles, dragons, and so on, as you know. But no evidence of laboratory-built chimeras like us. It might be an Amestrian problem.”

“What about traveling to the Chang clan?”

Lan Fan offers, “As Jerso implied, it’s highly unlikely that such chimeras existed beyond Amestris.” She doesn’t eat; she simply folds her hands behind her back as she stands by the emperor. “It’s unfortunate, but they might not find answers in our texts or in May’s clan if the science never traveled beyond their country.”

A sullen silence falls over the group. It doesn’t last long, however, as May throws her hands in the air, her face contorted in frustration. “No. We’ll figure it out. We will! If there’s no lead in the books, we-- we’ll just come up with a solution. I don’t want to give up. No way.”

Zampano and Jerso look at her with surprise. “Princess--”

“I mean it. We _have_ to find a way to help you.”

Zampano and Jerso look at her with tears. “ _Princess--_ ”

The chimeras are ready to bawl their eyes out. They nearly knock over their chairs to hug May Chang, the little warrior who’d shown so much bravery and heart amidst freezing cold and bloody violence. Ling looks immensely proud of his sister, and Lan Fan smiles, too.

(Unobserved by anyone, Greed watches curiously. He doesn’t say anything.)

“Okay, okay,” May laughs, shoving at the chimeras playfully. “You’re welcome to travel with me, or you can stay here. I don’t mind either. The palace always hosts a really grand festival with lots of food and activities.”

“If it’s all right,” Alphonse says to her, “I’d like to go with you.”

May beams happily.

Jerso blows his nose in a napkin. “Well, if there’s nothing in the capital that can help us--”

“I apologize,” Ling says, yawning again. His black eyes glitter. “But I wonder if the Amestrian government’s secrets remained after Bradley’s demise. Central wasn’t completely destroyed. If you were created in a lab, there must be records of the experiments. Lan Fan, would you--?”

He doesn’t have to finish his request when she disappears for half a moment, returning with a pen and a stack of papers.

“It’s been a while since we’ve written to General Mustang,” Ling remarks.

Alphonse tilts his head. “You believe that he would be able to help?”

“I believe that it is worth the postage.” Ling uncaps the fountain pen. He always preferred the fluid texture of ink opposed to the harsh, monotonous ballpoint. He’d write with quills or dip pens, if he didn’t fear looking archaic in front of his friends. “Thanks to the railroad, he will receive our letter before long.”

Jerso and Zampano are stunned into silence. They might not find answers this morning or for the rest of the day, but they certainly have support. When they stammer their thanks to the Xing Emperor, Ling merely smiles.

“You’re welcome, my friends. I think this is a refreshing start. Alphonse and May can go to the Chang clan, and we may remain in the capital and look over whatever papers we receive from the general. Even if I have to pull a few strings, I’m sure that our request will be accepted.”

May sighs. “What a thought. More chimeras.”

**Of _course,_ there were more chimeras.**

Ling’s pen hesitates before it touches the paper.

There’s no need to debate who at the table spoke. No one else’s voice is as distinct or sinister as Greed’s, joining the conversation with smug pride. Ling has the impression that if Greed had control over a body, he’d have a smirk curled on his lips. For now, they have to settle for the conceit in his tone.

“What do you mean?” Zampano asks. “Besides--”

**\--Darius and Heinkel, yes, I remember them well.** Greed blinks. **But when King Bradley was in charge, he had a whole host of scientists who worked on human-animal hybrids. Some experiments failed. Some survived. There were at least a dozen _true_ chimeras underneath Central.**

Names and faces flash before Alphonse’s eyes. “You mean…” he forces himself to speak normally, “The chimeras from Dublith?”

**That’s right,** Greed says smugly. He doesn’t pay attention to Alphonse or the way the alchemist hides his shaking hands under the table. **All of them escaped from Central after being experimented on.**

“And the scientists? What happened to them?” asks Lan Fan.

**I don’t think any of them survived.**

Ling silently acknowledges the inferred truth and says, “Regardless, we must pursue this opportunity. You say there were chimeras in the past, so we’ll asks General Mustang to find their records.” He glances at Lan Fan. “This will be a sensitive topic for both countries.”

“It’s possible that any leaked information will inspire the creation of chimeras in Xing,” she agrees. “We will take proper precautions. Rendezvous at an agreed location. Maintain a low profile while the court is out of session. I will confirm security with Lieutenant Hawkeye.”

“Perfect.”

“I assume, then, while Alphonse is out of the capital, Greed will remain with us.” She glances over to the flask, and the Homunculus scowls. It seems to be his default reaction.

Exeunt from the dining room. Shadows leap to action as Ling Yao dons his emperor garbs, masking the boy who much prefers ponytails and loose hair than tight buns. Ling makes his way to the main palace hallways first, the rest trailing afterwards.

It seems like bad timing when a court advisor’s apprentice questions the unnamed, unpleasant energy within the covered flask. The young man, meant to replace his quarantined mentor, bow as his emperor passes.

_Your Royal Highness._

Ling only nods in response. 

The advisor’s eyes flick over the rest of the group. Alphonse dimly recognizes the robe’s northern tribe colors, then starts in surprise as the court advisor suddenly addresses him.

_What is_ that _? What are you holding?_

Alphonse doesn’t have time to answer when Ling swiftly steps in with a stern expression.

The advisor turns as pale as his robes and stammers, _Your Royal Highness, I beg my forwardness, I sensed malice from the boy’s possession. Eternal One, it is well intentions--_

Ling silences him with a sharp gesture. “The Amestrian State Alchemist is both an associate and a close friend. You _will_ address him the proper respect whether he is in company or by himself. Do not bring disgrace to his rank.”

_Of course, I should not-- I apologize most sincerely--_

“Your plea is noted. Dismissed.”

With another panicked apology and a deep, deep bow, the young advisor scuttles away in haste. Alphonse clears his throat. His ears are burning with embarrassment; he’s not used to the attention. “Ling, I, uh, appreciate it. But--”

“In my court,” Ling says firmly, “I will not have friends so rudely addressed. Names and titles are important. Perhaps not to you, but for me, and certainly for this country.”

Save for Lan Fan and May, this is the first time their foreign friends have seen Ling’s passion for proper honorifics, which he chalks it up to tradition. He chose his own titles, after all.

Alphonse tightens his grip on the cloaked flask. It feels like a small hearth in his arms. The Homunculus has undoubtedly been listening but says nothing.

The masked bodyguard whisks her emperor away to deal with travel arrangements and clandestine correspondences with the West. Alphonse offers to help pen the appeal, but before he knows it, May drags him towards the palace garden. He’s yet to see the serenity of her favorite place in the entire capital. Jerso and Zampano trail after them, at the moment without direction. Soon after they trek back to the library.

Autumn means that most of the flowers and trees have started to wither, not without changing into beautiful, raw colors. Alphonse removes the flask’s cloth and sets Greed on a bench. Even the unusually calm Greed gazes round the shifting season.

May tosses him a piece of chalk. Wielding her own, she kneels down and draws a huge circle, then the five-pointed star. “What do you remember about the alkahestry basics I taught you?”

“That was a long time ago. I forgot some, I learned some by myself.” Alphonse rolls the chalk between his fingers, then draws the same pentacle. “At least this feels familiar,” he jokes.

May pulls out a handful of daggers from her cloak.

“ _That_ is so not familiar.”

She hands him a kunai and expertly flicks it in the air, remembering how Lan Fan taught her to test its balance. Then she shows Alphonse how to set up the transmutation circle complete with five daggers. “Instead of elements in the periodic table,” May begins, “I suppose you could say that we focus on the five elements of matter within the Dragon’s Pulse.”

“Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water.”

“Right. Elements generate energy. We manipulate elements in the Pulse to heal. Otherwise, we use it to destroy matter at close and long distances. We’ll focus on the latter.” She tucks a loose strand behind her ear, unknowingly leaving a dusty streak of white against her black hair. “Try it.”

Alphonse obliges; he sets his hands on the chalk circle. He closes his eyes and almost immediately, lightning bolts crackle and leap from his fingers.

“No,” May says. “I can sense that you’re not using the Dragon’s Pulse. Try again.”

He does.

Again. And again.

The golden-haired boy tries to keep exasperation out of his voice. “I don’t get it. I’ve read the basics. I know how to focus on my individual life force, but I can’t find the Pulse.”

The two of them had run into the same issue during one of their first interactions. Hiding in one of a dozen Briggs slums, waiting for Envy to reveal themselves, learning as much about alchemy and alkahestry as they could in a short period of time.

Alphonse prefers alchemy for its scientific, rational technique.

May chooses alkahestry for its intuitive method.

He sighs. “What about remote transmutation?” Unfortunately for Alphonse, remote transmutation derives from the ability to find the Dragon’s Pulse both under his feet and in the distance. To use alkahestry’s unique skills, he had to master the basics first.

May explains: “It’s like a river. Throwing a stone in one part of the stream will affect the rest of the water.” She points at his chalk circle and slightly askew kunai. “First, focus on creating the ripple.”

About half an hour later, Lan Fan joins them and removes her mask in familiar company. She sets it down next to the silent flask. “Afternoon, Greed. May, Alphonse. How is the training going?”

Alphonse groans. He’s lying on his back, his frock and hands covered with chalk dust, reminiscent of his early days as an alchemist. May sits cross-legged across from him, toying with an uprooted weed. “We’re doing great,” she says cheerfully, ignoring another tired groan from the Amestrian.

Lan Fan hides a grin.

“Don’t work him too much, beansprout. Here.” The retainer hands over a few scrolls to May. “A few tasks to complete while you’re with your elders. Ling would like to speak later in private. He’d like your approval on an idea.”

As a princess and active member in the royal court, May is considered an unusually high-ranking apprentice. She often represents her clan however symbolically. Her age and lack of political experience, due to the Chang’s lacking resources, are disadvantages until she claims an official footing among the current staff. Nonetheless, she loves her court duties for a number of reasons.

Not only does May have a purpose in the palace, she is able to contribute to the new laws and traditions of her country. She has the chance to remedy the mistakes of the past generations, including the royal blood feuds and disinterest to smaller clans like the Chang’s.

There is a soft _clink_ of metal as Alphonse pries a kunai from the ground, examining its keen blade for nicks. “It’s fine. The armory will take care of any defects,” Lan Fan says as she returns to the Amestrian language with practiced ease.

“Lan Fan, you can read the Dragon’s Pulse, right?” asks Alphonse, rocking back on his heels. “How do you find it?”

“Here, we’re raised on the concept of _chi_ the same way you learn about maths or science. Just because you had a late start does not mean that you cannot perform alkahestry. I think it is easier to understand the Pulse when it is not hindered by people, objects, and noise.” Seeing his bewildered expression, Lan Fan adds: “Everything carries energy, no matter how small or meaningful. It can disrupt your senses.”

“Like.. too many stones being thrown at once?”

“Too many ripples,” May agrees.

Lan Fan gestures to the palace. “This is not an ideal setting. When you visit May’s clan, go to the valleys and mountain trails. It is simpler there.” There is no bite in her words;

May knows that her friend does not have ill intentions. Sometimes, simple is better and easier. The bodyguard moves to sit on the ground, ignoring the way Greed’s eyes slowly open and track her movement. “May I watch?” Lan Fan asks.

Alphonse nods. He replaces the kunai and splays his hands on the ground. Then he closes his eyes. The alchemist turns his attention away from his steady, thudding heartbeat, and tries to connect with the Dragon’s Pulse. Whenever he transmutes, he’s able to tap into the tectonic energy of the land. But that’s based on chemicals and science and matter.

How is he supposed to draw from the spiritual energy of this unfamiliar country? He is far, far from home.

* * *

Alphonse doesn’t dream.

* * *

 

The morning of their departure to the Chang clan is heralded by a letter from the Amestrian General known as the Flame Alchemist. Ling seems both pleased, as if he’d expected nothing less from their western neighbors. After they bid farewell the alchemist and the princess, he and Lan Fan plan to leave soon after, silently and unobserved.

Tourists, citizens, and guardsmen alike meander around the public courtyard, and Ling waits with May at the top of the palace stairs. It is serene and peaceful on the eve of the harvest moon.

Ling clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I haven’t heard a lot about Alphonse and his alkahestry. Lan Fan mentioned he might be frustrated.”

May shrugs. “It’s a difficult craft to master.”

“I know. Anything else?” Ling half-grimaces. “The palace walls have ears.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“Sorry.”

She twists her hands behind her back. “He’s been having a hard time with alkahestry. We haven’t… had any more lessons.”

Ling glances down at her. “Are things okay between you two?”

“Sure.”

His little sister looks up at him. In the bright sunlight cast upon the capital of Xing, she notes that the transmutation marks on his jawline and neck have begun to fade. The ones on his hands stubbornly remain, though he hides them in his sleeves.

“I think we’re okay. I don’t really know what to say.”

In a tone more like a sibling than a ruler, Ling says, “I think that you should just keep supporting him and his goals. He’s a good alchemist. I’m sure he can be a great alkahestrist. Tell him that.”

She nods. “Okay. You do it.”

“What? No, you do it. You’re closer to him.”

“We’re not-- yeah, okay, but he _listens_ to you.”

Ling stares. “May, are you kidding me? You two are like partners in crime. He loves talking, reading, and practicing with you.” He pats her head, then the pink flowers woven in her braids. “You’ll be fine, warrior princess.”

She groans.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Look, have fun with Alphonse, and tell your folks that I said hello.” Ling spies a distinct, familiar mask out of the corner of his eye. Its silent appearance indicates Alphonse’s arrival, and to his mild surprise, the golden-haired alchemist is holding the covered flask.

Ling and Greed exchanged few words in light of the latter’s demands. It’s much more difficult to communicate now that they are separate entities: Ling can’t read intentions, and the Homunculus refuses to comprehend emotions. Lan Fan, too, has hardly spoken with Greed.

It pains Ling, but he understands that it might take time to know each for a second time.

“Morning,” Alphonse says, nodding at them. “Have you seen my bags? I thought I had them outside my door.”

“Already in the car,” Ling replies cheerfully, “which will take you and May all the way to the domestic station.”

“Great. Should anything happen with your _chi_ or Greed, send a letter or word-of-mouth, even if we’re only gone for a few nights.” Alphonse motions to the flask. He refrains from tapping his fingers along the glass, learning quickly that Greed would absolutely detest it.

As a gentle breeze passes through the open palace and catches a corner of the flask’s cloth, May catches a glimpse of crimson fog and white eyes. May recalls the way Envy would peer from behind their own curtain, stuck in another jar, in another time.

“Who will be looking after the flask in the meantime?” she asks.

“For the time being, I will relocate to the previous emperor’s quarters separate from the main building,” says Ling. “And Greed can remain there during any meetings.”

**Trapped in a flask, trapped in a palace. It can’t get much grander than this,** Greed mutters softly. **Why can’t I just travel with the kids?**

“We might need you after our meeting with the Amestrians,” Lan Fan says under her breath. “And you must remain out of sight for the time being, Greed.”

The Homunculus doesn’t argue.

“I guess we’ll get going. Here.” Alphonse steps forward and holds the flask out for Ling. It is meant to be an easy exchange. It was as simple as a message changing hands.

Past the emperor’s outstretched and expectant arms, past the warm, cloaked flask, Alphonse sees the flash of silver steel in the late morning sunlight.

He barely recognizes the pale, pastel clan colors of a young court advisor who happens to be extremely sensitive to Greed’s _chi_.

He only sees the blade, not too unlike May Chang’s kunai, that drives towards them, for all intents and purpose meant to shatter the Avaricious, and his heart leaps into his throat.

Thoughts of _fight or flight_ fade from his mind; he can only freeze in fear and his skin prickles like a thousand pins and needles--

And then there’s a bright flash of blue followed by inexplicable darkness. Alphonse is falling, and he barely remembers to protect the flask at the last minute, tucking it close to his chest and taking the brunt of the fall. Greed’s shouts are muffled as his golden head cracks against the mosaic floor.

Everything is white, and for a moment, he thinks that he’s back in front of the Gates.

Greed’s muffled voice awkwardly cuts through the pain and nausea. **Kid? Alphonse? Alphonse!**

He winces as the throbbing white fades away. It’s too dark to see anything-- _Where am I?_   Alphonse tries to sit up but his scalp smacks against a low, low ceiling. Upward force proves useless, so the alchemist snaps the fingers on his right hand and illuminates the space. The electric spark sputters and flickers in tune with his headache.

By the faint glow, Alphonse sees that the walls of this tomb, dome-like and cramped, are covered in transmutation marks. It looks like clay or stone. His stomach churns with recognition: it’s an exact match to the floor of the palace courtroom.

And he’s in some sort of coffin, which he created instantly and reflexively with a surge of brilliant lightning.

The cloth which covered the flask lies abandoned. Greed writhes anxiously, his blank eyes swiveling side to side. **What did you do?** Greed demands. **Did you put us in here?**

Safe. Safe from that silver glinting knife.

Alphonse sets down the flask and presses both hands on the walls.

But all he can think about is that _knife_. If Alphonse hadn’t spotted the attack, or if he’d been a second too late to react--

His breath hitches and he yanks his hands away. Greed’s gravelly voice is much too loud in this small space. It digs into his skull like a shovel. **Can’t you break us out of this thing?**

“I--” The alchemist swallows hard. “I can, I just need to calm down first.” The thudding of his pulse is overwhelming. Who had been the target? Likely Greed, though the Homunculus seems oblivious to how close he’d been to drifting back into nothingness.

**I can’t hear anyone.** **The walls are too thick.** Greed looks over to Alphonse’s rigid form. **What’s the matter with you? How many people have tried to kill you in the past?**

Alphonse sticks his head between his knees and tries to focus on slowing his breath. Of course, avarice incarnate is correct. “I’ve never fought anyone since the Promised Day,” he admits. “I’ve sparred, but... nothing like this.”

**Thought you were a State Alchemist.**

“It’s just a title. It doesn’t mean I’m a soldier.”

**Self-defense might be something to learn.**

“Yeah. Might be.”

Talking seems to alleviate the onset of panic. Alphonse turns and fixes his gaze on Greed. “You were almost shattered. I don’t know what would happen if your flask broke. I don’t think you’d be able to exist without a--”

**A body?**

“I was going to say, a ‘container’.”

**And how am I supposed to defend myself like this?**

There’s no proper answer for this. Greed rolls his eyes in exasperation.

The alchemist then thinks back to Dublith and the Devil’s Nest, and how the past was catching up to them. “The first time we met, was that your first body?” Alphonse asks instead.

Greed unhappily settles, and then ever so slightly, nods.

“Made completely by your design. And when you returned to the Eye of God, to wherever you came from-- did you see the other Homunculi?”

**Hmm.** The mist rolls lazily around. **Hard to tell. When you’re in a place that sort of exists beyond the world, you don’t have a corporeal form. You’re not always sentient, either. One day, you’re Avarice. The next, you’re part of the cosmic shit that makes up the Eye of God.**

Alphonse listens.

**I don’t know where the others are. Safe to assume that they’re still in the Eye, unless you’ve been fishing out Homunculi and trapping them in flasks.** Greed side-eyes him in the dim light. There’s color in the kid’s cheeks, and his breathing is more even. **Feeling better?**

“A little bit. Yeah.”

**Why’d you ask about the others?**

He shrugs. “Seeing you makes me think that we didn’t destroy the Homunculi. What if they return?”

**Then you’d better learn how to fight properly. Not too tough without a suit of armor, are you?**

“Nah, not really.”

He musses his hair nervously and the sound of crackling ozone fills the air. The back of his hand scrapes against the low ceiling. He’d love to pace and shake away the anxiousness; unfortunately, he can only sit and talk to a bottle of smoke and greed.

“Listen, Greed. While I’m gone, you should really talk to Ling and Lan Fan.” His friends have looked painfully at the flask, wishing to talk more about their pasts though Greed seemed to only care about escaping the flask. “We have to help the chimeras first. And giving you a body is… complicated.”

**Afraid I’m going to run off, become a criminal, or do anything else than sit here in a glass?**

“No. Well, I’m a little worried about the ‘criminal’ bit. Regardless, whatever you want to do with a new body,” Alphonse emphasizes, “it’s not only for _you_. You’re responsible for part of Ling’s soul. Does that make sense? You two are linked.”

Greed narrows his white eyes.

“Talk to them… and maybe they’ll agree with you.” He struggles to find the right words. What would convince the stubborn Homunculus? “You’re not going to gain anything unless you just talk.”

Dust sifts visibly in the sparse light.

Alphonse immediately picks up the flask and watches as the transmutated tomb around them starts to melt. The layered walls slough off like mud in a rainstorm, then returns to the floor. While it doesn’t perfectly match with the original mosaic designs, it’s close enough.

They stare in awe at the sight of May Chang, and the soft yellow electric discharge that dances around the courtroom.

Jerso and Zampano are there; so are Ling and Lan Fan, the former surrounded by at least half a dozen shadow-shrouded bodyguards. A silver knife lies abandoned on the scarred floor, a few strides away from a court advisor bound and forced on his knees.

“May,” Alphonse says, stunned, and she grabs his hand to help him up. “I’m sorry. I-- I couldn’t help it.” She picks up the discarded cloth and quickly drapes it over the flask.

“You’re not the one who has to apologize.”

It suddenly dawns on him that they are standing in the middle of a drawn circle. He spins around, recognizing the earth symbols and runes for deconstruction. _Alchemy._

“Look,” May says, holding up her chalk-smudged hands. “No kunai.”

Ling breaks away from the guards and pushes his way to them. “Alphonse--” His gaze flitters down to the flask. “Greed. Are you two all right?”

“We’re okay.’

“Maybe we should delay the trip--”

**Let ‘em go, Ling,** comes Greed’s low grumble. **They’ll be fine.**

Ling is surprised, but he takes the flask without interruption. He notes that although the Philosopher’s Stone is much warmer than Greed’s presence, this feels more familiar. He looks back at the apprehended court advisor. His black eyes harden with an emotion that Alphonse can’t, or won’t, describe.

“This will never happen again.”

The Chang princess looks Alphonse over and then gently guides him to the outside. The courtyard had been cleared of people in the urgent situation; it is completely empty as they walk to the assigned car, Ling and the others in tow.

“I don’t know what to say,” May tells him, “but I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks. I don’t even know what I did. What did it look like?”

“Lightning appeared from out of nowhere. It threw the assassin back, and Lan Fan immediately pinned him. When we looked back, you’d created-- something. Blades couldn’t break the surface. I couldn’t risk using alkahestry to destroy it, so--”

May had been right to switch to alchemy; it would have been the safest way to defuse the situation. “Think the news will spread quickly?” he asks.

“No doubt. I bet even Edward will hear about the death-defying Heartbeat Alchemist,” May adds dramatically.

The princess has lived through her share of assassinations. It makes sense she would recover quickly from the situation. The palace was entirely capable of dealing with the culprit, but Alphonse can’t shake the feeling of being watched as they head to the train station.

He nervously pats his pockets for his silver pocketwatch, seeking reassurance in its weight and contour. He wonders if his brother had ever felt this way: anxious, fearful, looking for comfort in a clock face.

The rail system in Xing is similar to the Amestrian system, however the scenery outside makes all the difference.

Back home, especially in Resembool, Alphonse saw endless wheat fields and white-picket fences. City skylines would slowly crawl into view as the countryside slowly transformed into isolated trainyards and stations. The voyage would continue on foot or by car.

Xing cities had their railroads slice through the intersections as easily as avenues and turnpikes. High demand for long-distance transportation mandated easy access, thus it was not unusual to see an immediate shift between urban and rural. One could leave the train station and immediately walk into a high-rise building. This was not the case for more rural clans like May Chang’s.

One of Ling’s imperial ambitions was to improve travel time to and from the isolated clans. While those communities had their own medical and financial practices, closing the gap between the large and small clans assured solidarity.

Their private cabin was designed for six people. Alphonse and May had plenty of room on either side as they set down their bags and prepared for the long journey. “What are you reading?” he asks.

She holds up a book on alchemy runes and symbols, little pencil marks visible in the margins. “You?”

He shows her the translated cover of an alkahestry guide for beginners.

There’s something strange and alluring about learning the very craft his father help create five hundred years ago. All those nights in his home study, all those textbooks-- how often did Van Hohenheim think about the legacy he left behind in Xing?

About halfway through their trip, May bookmarks her chapter and looks up. “How do you feel, Alphonse?”

“Confused. I think this edition’s a bit outdated.”

“I’ll help you find a better version. But I was talking about this morning.” She taps her pencil against her cheek. “I think that was your first assassination. Surely... you might be feeling... nervous?”

(She’s never had to console someone from nearly being killed; May is adamant that there are better words to be said.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t for me. It was for the flask,” he tells her (and reassures himself). “Besides, I’ve had plenty of people try and kill me and Edward. Other suits of armor, the Homunculi, and so on.”

May narrows her dark brown eyes. She wants to press the subject especially because he’s clearly hiding his stress. It’s evident in his _chi_ , flaxen gold and benevolent, unwilling for violence. “Well,” she says finally, “if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

The alchemist slowly leans back in his seat. “Actually,” Alphonse admits, “something has been bothering me. Maybe you could help.”

He tells her about his pulse alchemy.

He tells her about how he’d been useless to escape from the tomb he’d transmuted in the middle of the palace court, and how Greed out of all people had to talk him down. It hadn’t been an issue when he was sparring with Ling because he’d been completely in control of his emotions and thoughts.

A short silence settles as they struggle to voice their own thoughts. To explain; to comfort; to have confidence in themselves. The conversation, inevitably, moves on for the time being.

“What’s the Chang clan like?”

“We’re further away from the capital,” May says after thinking it over, “so we don’t have many visitors. The people are divided into neighboring communities. Everyone knows each other, and we all trust each other.

“Honestly, I think it’s a lot more beautiful than the capital. It doesn’t have many tall buildings. There are a few shrines located way up the mountains, and when the fog rolls in the morning--” May sighs happily. “It’s wonderful. I wish I could visit more often.”

“Why don’t you?” asks Alphonse.

“Responsibilities. I have to make a reputation in the court. I can’t be just the Emperor’s little sister. I have to actually _be_ someone.”

He frowns. “Does that make you nervous?”

“No more than anything else.” The princess clears his throat. “I hope you’ve been studying your Xingese,” she says. “My family doesn’t speak much Amestrian.”

The train eventually docks at the nearest station to the Chang clan, but it takes another hour and a half to reach the main village.

The urban setting gives way to verdant valleys and rocky roads. The passing peoples’ clothes and demeanor also change: they look more sun-kissed, wearied and happier, and the clan colors shift to dark reds, purples, and pinks.

The Chang elders, composed of May’s mentors and relatives, greet them happily just as the sun starts its descent down the afternoon sky. Alphonse bows, and thanks them for their hospitality in his Amestrian-accented Xingese. Wide grins split across their weathered, browned faces, and their eyes crinkle with delight. He sees May’s bright, kind, and loving personality in all of them.

The princess occasionally slips back and forth in her Xingese and the Chang dialect, and Alphonse only manages to understand fragments of their conversations.

“Alphonse is the Heartbeat Alchemist,” he overhears as he shakes hands with her mother’s relatives. “No, _amah_ , not Heart-- Heart _beat_. Yes, I know.”

The ceremonial greetings were less demanding than those in the capital. To his surprise, the clan treated May primarily as a family member: a niece, cousin, and granddaughter. Kisses and hugs interrupt, or rather enrich respectful bows and handshakes. They were either far removed from the palace customs, or did not care for them.

They asked Alphonse about Amestris, his family and friends, and his interest in alkahestry. He promised to show off his alchemic skills during the official harvest festival.

Before the sun sets completely, May takes his arm and leads him towards one of the rice terraces. Shao Mei, who had been huddled in the princess’s robes, weaves between their strides. Alphonse starts to rub his fingers together to charge static electricity.

He flicks it on the unpaved path and Shao Mei immediately chases after the bouncing ball of lightning. It fizzles harmlessly after a few moments, and Alphonse does it again and again, his pulse calm and steady.

Conjuring lightning is actually not as easy as it looks to everyone else; it feels like little needles every time the alchemist condenses and creates these lights. The longer he holds on to them, the more the stabbing pain continues. There was also the variable chance of lightning charging enough heat and energy to transform into flames, though Alphonse tries not to entertain the probability.

The stone and dirt under their feet gradually becomes silt-like, malleable, and water-logged. They reach the fields in time to see Chang farmers knee-deep in the wetfield. They wield short sickles and harvest the mature rice stalks, throwing them in large wicker baskets on their backs. A large, horned ox waits to the side, boredly distracting a handful of children who liked to catch the rice-eating snails.

May shouts a greeting. There is a chorus of replies and a few muddy waves before they return to the busy work.

“These farmers belong to the neighboring village.” She points towards the cluster of homes about a couple of miles to the east. “Families often board their children with other relatives so they can learn different trades. That village works with agriculture. Mine does alkahestry and trade. I did my schooling in the next valley.”

She begins to roll up her sleeves and trousers, and she kicks off her slippers.

A few of her clansmen protest at her offer for help, but easily relent under her resolute approach. May and Alphonse do their best to aid the harvest; however inexperienced and out-of-practice, extra pairs of hands boost morale and favor towards their guests. The sharp stalks bite into Alphonse’s palms and the evening’s humidity quickly drenches his clothes. Fortunately, time passes quickly with bilingual chatter.

Alphonse spies a group of buckets overflowing with snails. He wades over to an empty section, then sticks his hands under the silt and cloudy water. A flash of blue, a hiss of steam-- and then Alphonse pulls out a lightweight, clay bucket in each hand. He gives them to the kids who delightedly seize the pails and search for more pests.

Alphonse and May shoulder a full basket each, then join the group of farmers to head back to the distant village. They walk next to the ox-drawn cart and at May’s behest, he strokes the bull’s powerful horns, and its thick, cool hide.

As they pass through the stone arches of the village’s main roads, May takes a moment to speak with an older woman with a long, gray-streaked plait down her back. She wanted to know about the establishment of a proper town hall, post office, and an alkahestrist-run clinic.

The Changs suffered most from the country’s hierachy of power. Thankfully, with Ling’s and May’s combined efforts in a palace court ruled by tradition and legacy, the smaller clans have an opportunity to rise from destabilization as the larger clans, for once, were set aside.

_It is a languid progress, but it is much better than what we had. May the White Flame live for a very, very long time._ The elder sighs, and then kisses May on the forehead. _We are so proud of our princess. Thank you._

On the way back to the main road, they quickly rinse at an old, still working water pump. Alphonse releases the lever and lets Shao Mei dunk her head, then shake off all the excess water. May wipes her hands on her dress.

He rubs his hands together and lets the leftover water droplets evaporate in a quiet whisper of steam. “How do you feel about your clan’s status?” he asks. “Do you plan to compete with the larger clans?”

“That’s a challenging question, but there are many possibilities we can consider.”

“Spoken like a true court advisor.”

“Shut up.” May grins. “Before Ling became emperor, the economy could succeed without my clan’s involvement. We had too little a presence to provide a profit-- which is why the Changs were so impoverished.

“And then the drought happened. The mountainous regions were not as heavily affected as the clans who ruled livestock and crops. The palace funded projects to help develop our fields more efficiently. That autumn, we started to finally push through the ranks.

“It’s... difficult to destroy an existing system. When the other clans required assistance, we were able to step up to the role-- and it was because of Ling.” May stretches her hands above her head and yawns. “At the moment, it’s too risky to think of anything else. I think that as long as there _is_ change, slow as it might be, we might be doing some good.”

They crest over the ridge, once more spying the rice terraces now bare and empty in the last dregs of sunset. In the distance, a jumble of gaslight and electric lamps freckle the darkness. Further to the east, countless flecks of light appear in the growing darkness.

Suddenly, Alphonse sees a little green glow in the nearby reeds. It fades, then reappears elsewhere.

More and more of the lights blink awake as Alphonse stares at the hundreds of fireflies that begin to shine all over the valley. He’d seen them in Resembool and even Rush Valley-- but there are more, here, in the mountains that May calls home.

He quickly crouches and seizes a handful of loose grass tufts. With a twist of his wrist, the crackling lightning dissipates and Alphonse presents a small, but functional, bug net.

May sets a hand on his arm. “No, don’t catch them,” she tells him. “Just watch.”

“Have you caught fireflies before?”

“Yes. But here is one of the last places in Xing where you can see so many fireflies at once. You’ll never see this in the capital unless they’re in jars.”

Alphonse gazes at her, his golden eyes dark and soft even in the dim light. He is more than content to just be with the princess, and watch the fireflies.

He turns the grass net over in his hands, and after another cobalt blue flash, it slowly sifts back to the ground in its separate components.

Deconstruction is dangerously simple. It takes the form of fearsome destruction from a scarred Ishvalan; it comes gentle at May’s request.

* * *

The roar of a motorcycle rips through the air as it turns around the corner and races down the avenue, expertly scouting past other vehicles and pedestrians. It hops up a curb to avoid a rattling rickshaw and then expertly returns to the lane.

At a distance, neither the general nor lieutenant can identify the two motorists-- their helmets completely obscure their faces and their outfits are civilian.

The motorcycle swerves to a stop and parks itself across the street, amidst half a dozen more bikes.

The passenger disembarks as the engine sputters and dies. He removes his helmet, carding long black hair back into a messy, half-up ponytail. He turns and spots the Amestrians in the cafe window. And he waves.

“Whatever happened to being incognito?” Hawkeye murmurs as Mustang has distant reminders of the Elric brothers and presses his fingers to his temple.

Lan Fan swiftly removes her own helmet and scans the surroundings with alert, bright eyes. They have since discarded their palace garbs, wearing something other than palace silk or light armor. Lan Fan keeps her hair loose, which she flicks out of her face now and then. She, too, sees the Amestrians.

She adjusts the backpack slung over her shoulder, careful not to jostle it too much.

“Let’s speak quickly,” Lan Fan says to Ling. “We’re guaranteed about twenty minutes before the next train departure.” The bodyguard and her liege, as civilians for less than half an hour (and for the first time in their lives), cross the street and enter the shop.

It is Lan Fan, the one who usually hides behind a mask, who shakes hands with the lieutenant and speaks first. “Welcome to Xing. Thank you for meeting us on such short notice.”

The lieutenant offers a calm smile.

“We understand your schedule, especially with the upcoming harvest festival. Thank you for your hospitality, Lan Fan.”

The two women are wholly aware of similar roles in two separate countries and customs. Riza Hawkeye is older and more experienced when it comes to political meetings, Lan Fan is visibly tense; she can see the way the girl’s black eyes flick all around despite tireless efforts to maintain safety and secrecy.

Mustang and Ling simply nod at each other.

Then the four sit down and confront the whirlwind of emotions. There’s respect and trust, but there’s also wariness and apprehension and of course--

“Surely, as we discussed, our conversation will have nothing to do with either of our governments,” begins General Mustang. He folds his hands on the table, where all can see the faint, white scars of a transmutation circle carved on the back of his hand.

The Emperor of Xing briefly smiles; it is a sharp, wolfish grin, the same one he wore when he returned to his country with immortality in his pocket. “Surely, of course,” he agrees. “Only our interests crossed borders.”

\--there’s friction.

Lan Fan and Hawkeye know that their respective charges would not be afraid of conflict.

It is Mustang’s haughtiness and pride, and Ling’s youth and recklessness which threatens diplomacy. Neither want to adhere to the prestige of their roles; they quite enjoy stepping away from the mantle.

(If anything, it makes them seem infuriating.)

“Excuse me,” Hawkeye says suddenly, lifting her gaze, “but how is Princess Chang?”

Ling blinks. He instantly becomes someone else, a character without apprehension. “May? She’s with your Heartbeat Alchemist right now, teaching him alkahestry.” His voice softens. “I wish we had time to take you to the capital and have a reunion, but I’m afraid that will have to wait.”

He remembers how much May respects and looks up to the lieutenant even if it is Hawkeye who owes her life to the fourteen-year old.

The black-haired general clears his throat. “Please extend our thanks once more to the princess,” Mustang adds quietly, though not at all reluctantly.

Then he reaches into a bag under his seat and extracts a thick manila folder. There are no identifying marks on the portfolio, but instantly Ling and Lan Fan know this is their prize.

This is also the Amestrian’s sole advantage when it comes to consequent negotiations.

Not only is this beyond their turf, and not only are they in the presence of Xing’s beloved ruler, it is an insidious past that brings them here. The work of corrupt scientists and tortured human lab subjects scars their country’s origins. Now the Xingese wished to unearth these secrets because--

“May we ask,” Mustang says, keeping his right hand on the file, “to what extent do you intend to investigate this?”

Ling leans back in his seat. “As you may be aware, Jerso and Zampano have accompanied the Heartbeat Alchemist to Xing. They have been searching for a way to return to their natural bodies.”

“And alkahestry has proved ineffective?”

“On the contrary,” Ling says proudly. “It serves to compliments your craft. It eliminates specialization because alkahestrists can transmute matter _and_ work with the organic body.”

The Flame Alchemist grimaces. “I look forward to hearing all about Alphonse’s successes.”

“As do I.”

“Suppose you achieve your goals. Where will this information go?”

Lan Fan speaks up. “It will remain secured in the palace.”

Neither Amestrian official seem comfortable with the idea. Hawkeye steels her gaze on Lan Fan, perhaps aiming to reason with the retainer. “We can arrange another meeting like this. We should reclaim what is ours and ensure none of the papers are missing.”

“You have our assurance that your Amestrian reports shall not leave our possession without any sort of consent,” Lan Fan replies impassively, and pretends not to see Ling’s smile. “It will, along with the rest of our official documents, remain safe.”

“Then,” Hawkeye says, just as indifferently, “this is the moment when we negotiate a trade. What does Xing offer for our service?”

Ling props his chin up with a hand. “Our shared war experience is not enough?” he asks wryly.

Riza Hawkeye’s hazel-brown gaze is stern. “Not at the moment, Your Royal Highness.” Her tone of voice demands discipline, but it’s her _chi_ that lashes out at the two younger diplomats who exchange a brief, confidential glance.

(Hours later and in the dead of night, Ling asks, “Why does the lieutenant return to kill on the battlefield when she seeks redemption in peace? Will she know her cycle of contempt?”)

(The shadows reply with Lan Fan’s voice. “She is aware of her habits, but the lieutenant knows first and foremost: Death and victory are hand-in-hand.”)

(Lan Fan refrains from adding, _There is someone she must protect._ )

(The young lord already knows this.)

Ling sighs. “Very well, First Lieutenant,” he replies, using her honorific. “We prepared a proposal regarding an exchange of intelligence.”

Hawkeye tilts her head in appreciation.

“Alphonse Elric hopes to learn much by studying under May’s guidance. We know that the government look forward to gaining knowledge from his experiences. I have spoken to May, and she agreed to teach alkahestry basics to your alchemists come next spring.”

“For how long?” asks Mustang.

“As long as she wants.” Ling’s eyes are like flint. “I will not force May to stay against her wishes, and neither will you.”

Lan Fan and Hawkeye tense.

However, Mustang knows it would be pointless to argue with Ling. He looks over to his lieutenant. “An inviting proposition,” he says, drumming his fingers on the manila folder, “although a decision I must make for the entire State Alchemist staff.”

Lings adds craftily, “With your name attached to the profitable idea.”

It warrants a smile from Mustang. “Then we must accept your offer. Amestris welcomes the exchange.”

The conversation tone shifts. Lan Fan sets her automail hand against the table. The metallic sound reminds her of coins clinking together in a pouch. “We have full confidence in our security detail,” she says, “but you must a contingency plan if your history makes its way into public circulation.”

“Deny everything. Claim falsification. Stoke high tensions between our respective sovereigns,” the general says calmly, “and then blame it all on a third party.”

“Form a diplomatic committee,” Ling says absentmindedly, recalling past international conflicts. Espionage, threats of security, extraction and deportation-- the list goes on and on. They seem to start and end in similar manners. “We show the world that we forgive each other for faults that were not ours.”

At last, the dark-haired general slides the manila folder over to Ling. “History repeats itself, Your Highness,” he advises.

Ling opens the folder and immediately sees the west’s draconic symbol leering at him, hovering over paragraphs of redacted information. He flips through the stack and catches a glimpse of familiar names and faces.

Despite the way his heart twists at the sight of the chimeras he does not know, Ling lets his smile grow wide and wolfish. He does not want to show weakness in front of his political allies. Nor will he refuse the chance to show off his boldness.

“Well,” he says, his voice steady, “I certainly hope history finds a way to _redeem_ itself, rather than echo all of its wrongful mistakes.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Ling and Lan Fan seize the opportunity to shove the folder into their backpack, stand, and thank the Amestrians profusely once more for their time. The young emperor seizes the arm of a café waiter and offers to pay for their drinks. The farewells are brief as their paths will inevitably intertwine again.

Roy Mustang warily eyes the two Xingese teenagers as they exit and hurriedly return to their motorcycle. “How old are they, Lieutenant?”

“Both are nineteen, sir.”

“Huh. No respect for their elders, whatsoever.”

The lieutenant takes a sip of the sweet coffee. “No, sir,” Riza Hawkeye agrees, then adds, “still they command more respect than either of us.”

Once they board the local rail and lock themselves in the cabin, Ling spreads out the papers on the dining table while Lan Fan carefully removes the flask from her knapsack. The outside scenery is spotted with colorful crimsons and golds in preparation for the harvest festival, but they do not pay attention to the world which whirls past.

They fix their eyes on the twisted lab reports.

It reads like a child’s morbid science experiment. A curiosity unfolded through decades of recruiting injured soldiers and instead of utilizing prosthetics, an up-and-coming invention of the time, introduced the creation of the first human chimeras.

The Elric brothers often mentioned the tragedy of a little girl ( _Her name was Nina,_ so they would always begin) but there were pages and pages of failed trials, hundreds of names that Ling and Lan Fan read in silent shock. The scientists had kept them in cages. Failed experiments were locked away or further corrupted. They did not say where they buried the dead.

And there are pictures-- black-and-white pictures that Lan Fan turn over before they have a chance to claw into her memory. She shuts her black eyes and digs her nails in the seat cushion, faintly aware of ripping seams. “I never knew the Amestrians had such a history,” Lan Fan murmurs.

Ling wearily gazes across the table. “All countries have their share of bloodshed. Some are spilled beyond our borders. More often, within them.”

“But Xing--”

“--has never committed atrocities of this scale that we know of. Lan Fan, our country is _centuries_ older than any of its bordering states. It would be naïve to deny criminal activity in our dynasties. However,” Ling adds grimly, “there is no way that alkahestry carries this sort of terrible power.”

The Amestrians called it ‘bio-alchemy’, and it was a branch mentioned passingly in what little texts in the palace library. Alphonse once described it akin to human transmutation. It feels appropriate to assume the Philosopher’s Stone’s powers were involved in the chimera experiments. Unfortunately, the evidence in front of them is lacking and marks bio-alchemy as the culprit.

Ling jots down some notes but it turns to doodling a little bald man with spots and a long tail. He looks over to the flask, silent in the meantime. “Tell us about the Devil’s Nest. Did the chimeras ever talk about the actual process? Or any way to reverse it?”

**No.** Greed scowls. **They didn’t want to go back to their old selves.**

“All of them had signed up to be experiments.”

**Might’ve hated every second of it but hell, it worked. Martel got her legs back. Dolcetto, his spine. The others were in similar predicaments. They all wanted something. As far as I could tell, they didn’t regret their choice. They couldn’t.** Greed stirs, leaning forward to get a better look at the lab papers. **That was their avarice.**

Lan Fan traces over a few redacted lines. “It was alchemy that turned them into chimeras, but it can’t reverse the process?”

“Alphonse said it would be impossible. Perhaps with new information, he will think differently.”

Ling watches the hillside scenery scroll past. Soon enough, they’ll be back in the capital and don their royal mantles again. Ling, seated on the emperor’s throne. Lan Fan, always by his side.

And Greed.

His white eyes are half-closed, like he’s bored of watching them sift through hell on paper.

Ling glances back at the papers and idly thumbs through the folder tabs. There’s a section devoted to the first true chimeras. Their names, profiles, descriptions. Pictures. Ling might have glimpsed only a few years of Greed’s memories in Dublith, but he remembers--

\--how happy they were, and how Greed was so torn between anger and anguish when they were killed.

He fiddles with the tab. There’s no way to predict how the Homunculus would react now.

“Lan Fan,” he says instead, “what are your opinions of the general and lieutenant? Did they seem civil enough?”

“As we were, my lord.”

“I didn’t antagonize Mustang enough?”

“My lord,” Lan Fan says, with the briefest of smiles, “there may be plenty of opportunities later.”

Their eventual return to the palace is quiet and unobserved, with their country none the wiser.

* * *

The alchemist lies awake on the soft mattress.

Alphonse stretches out his hands and stares at their silhouettes against the wood pallet ceiling. He thinks about the darkness of being trapped in his own tomb; and then the sinking helplessness when his alchemy failed him.

So there was a weakness to the Heartbeat Alchemist, after all.

He’d only begun to consider how his pulse would affect the flow of alchemy in his body. It made sense-- _of course,_ it made sense. Izumi told him that he’d meet his limits eventually.

He could go around them, maybe find a way to bypass his flaws and redirect his energy into strengths. Or he could try and chip away at the stone walls that stop him from seeking a way to perfect his alchemy.

Slowly, Alphonse flexes his wrists and watches the soft, cobalt blue sparks leap between the silhouettes. It’s a lovely color and unlike the Homunculi’s crimson, jagged-like arcing bolts.

What would Truth say? What sort of riddle would lead him to the obvious answer?

He brings his hands together and extinguishes all the light.

A cricket chirps somewhere outside. Its simple melody devolves into a piercing screech. He can hear distant thunder, and wonders if storm clouds would arrive later for the festival or if they’d hide morning light.

Alphonse turns over in his bed and reaches for his nearby bag.

A couple of the armory-grade kunai clatter lightly to the ground, and he carefully sets them in a five-point position between the floorboards. He connects the dull blades with a bit of crushed chalk at the bottom of his bag. It feels like he’s ten years old again, holding the lamp while Edward draws perfect transmutation circles on their bedroom floor.

It’s quiet in the dead of night.

The golden boy closes his eyes, sets his hands on the ground, and searches for this elusive Dragon’s Pulse.

Rich irony: the Heartbeat Alchemist, unable to find the pulse of this faraway land. Nonetheless, it _must_ be like alchemy. It hides in the shifting of the earth’s plates, the force of its tectonic collisions--

\--except alkahestry isn’t wholly based on science; it’s about intuition and the natural flow in the land.

May Chang has an early meeting with her clan elders and decides to wake before dawn. Her morning is greeted with heavy rainfall drenching the streets and her clansmen.

She passes by Alphonse’s open door and glances in-- seeing him asleep on the floor next to five daggers delicately poised in an alkahestry circle. Ling’s advice rings in her ears.

“I wish I knew how to help him,” she whispers to Shao Mei, scratching her fluffy head. “He’s having such a difficult time with it.”

The panda sneezes.

“Hmm. That’s a good idea. Right as always, Shao Mei.” The princess whisks away to her court duties, running and seeking shelter under rusted roofs from the downpour.

She tells her elders about her to-be confirmed exchange to Amestris and her hopes to help with the alchemist with golden eyes. One of her uncles gestures to the mountain path.

_Take him to the shrine. Help him with a quiet moment._

Alphonse and May sleepily meet in the parlor for breakfast. He fiddles with the troublesome frog fasteners on his shirt collar as he watches May carefully pour two cups of hot water.

“I don’t know if this is going to work,” she says, handing him a mug, “but try the black tea. It has caffeine.”

“Winry revoked my caffeine and coffee privileges.”

“Because it helps your alchemy. You keep focusing on your heartbeat, not the Dragon’s Pulse.” May holds out a box of aromatic loose-leaf teas. “If you drink caffeine so it blocks your pulse alchemy for two, three hours--”

“--maybe I can focus more on alkahestry.” Alphonse blinks. “I’m willing to try.” He picks the tea and lets its steep. It’s so bitter to drink that he needs to add honey.

“I’m going to take you to one of our temples. Bring your daggers and wear a raincoat.”

They do not have any waterproof boots, so Alphonse dashes outside to the abandoned bike leaning against the front wall and transmutes a thin layer of rubber on their shoes. He manages to finish before the lightning sparks sputter, then fail completely.

The rain, thankfully, lets up as they trudge up the mountain path. The shrine is about a ten minutes’ walk with the clouded sun against their backs.

A quick glance around the territory lets Alphonse realize why May reminisced on the beauty of early mornings. He wished he had a camera, or even a sketchbook, to capture the opaque, drifting fog. He’d show them to Edward and Winry and Pinako, to compare with the flat, homely countryside.

Clouds shrouded for the mountain peaks and muted the sky’s gentle blue. Combined with the eerie quiet, it feels like they were standing in a completely different world.

“Alphonse?”

May’s voice drags him back to the present.

“I’m on my way.”

She brings him to the crumbling, moss-covered home the god of the harvest moon. While the Amestrian is not too familiar with the Xingese pantheons, he knows they exist in every aspect of nature. Spirituality could funnel alkahestrists’ intentions and concentration. Just like with any other craft, they acted as inspiration.

May lights a couple of incense sticks and bows her head for a moment.

Though not tall, the ancient architecture commands a sort of respect that Alphonse would rarely find in his young country.

A few half-melted candles sit quietly in the tall grass, its charred wicks soaked with early rainfall. Then he notes a trickle of water dripping steadily off its roof eaves. It leads to a brush of thick cattails hiding a small pool with lotus flowers and lily pads.

Shao Mei sees this too, and leaps off the princess’s shoulder and wanders towards the water. Alphonse brushes a few reeds aside and feels his skin crawl as he meets the glaring gaze of a cracked, jade green statue perched at the opposite bank. It takes him a moment to recognize the creature with eagle wings, a lion’s head, the body of a turtle, and a fish tail.

He remembers reading about these mismatched mythological beings who would stalk folk stories in leisure and conquest: unicorns, manticores, and chimeras.

“What are you looking at?” May walks up to him and finds the familiar statue she had often discovered as a child. “Ah. A protector of the temple. It’s aged well, don’t you agree?”

“It’s weird,” he replies. “Even when we’re not looking for trouble, it manages to find us.”

“Trouble does?”

“Yeah.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Think of it as the unexpected.”

The panda sniffs at the water’s edge. May steps forward, kneels down, and slowly lifts out one of the floating lotus flowers. It had been placed there as an offering, but had wilted in the days past.

An idea begins to take hold, and she tilts her head over to the temple entrance. It is empty and free of dirt and grass. She kneels down and Alphonse follows suit.

The sound of raindrops falling from the shrine rooftops fills the silence for a few minutes. Alphonse balances his borrowed kunai in the stone cracks, and May draws lines to link the delicate blades. The brown lotus blossom sits sickly in the middle. Shao Mei growls at it before May reassures her.

“Why here?” he asks. “Why are we trying here?”

“It’s quiet,” May replies. “Kind of peaceful. Focus less on your thoughts, and more on your senses.”

The temple’s god watches silently as Alphonse places his hands down and closes his eyes.

He turns his attention to his senses. He focuses on the hard stone and its unforgivably rough texture against his skin and knees. A wind lazily tousles his messy hair. He ignores his pulse, and how it calls for alchemy. Instead, Alphonse recalls this gentle, nostalgic feeling that stirs in his chest.

The hazy sight of May’s valley tugs at his heartstrings; his first home had been on top of a hill, too.

It’s the same way he felt when he and Edward snuck out of the hospital room at early twilight to walk barefoot in the grass. They set their palms against the gritty brick wall to feel it abrade their skin.

In Resembool, Alphonse would sit outside in the garden and watch the huge, dark clouds gather overhead. A brilliant flash of white and booming thunder never scared him inside; he would sit in the downpour and be completely soaked to the skin until Pinako dragged him inside.

Slipping his hands around a warm mug of tea. Eating Winry’s apple pie. Her dog, Den, and his soft black-and-white fur; and the faint jingle of his collar and automail prosthetic. Hugging Edward before they parted ways at the train station. Seeing May for the first time in three years. That surge of vicious _chi_ when Greed came back.

He opens his eyes in time to see a pale, gentle blue light murmur into existence.

It emerges from the earth, of mud and rain, and dances around the steel blades as the metal slowly siphons energy from the Dragon’s Pulse.

May sets her hands on the circle and nudges the energy towards the lotus blossom.

The shriveled petals tremble, and its browned colors fade as a soft gradient of pink and white gradually takes over.

The flower finds volume again and then relaxes, finding perfection in all of its lovely flaws: the small tears and notches, dark freckles near its yellow base, the almost too sweet scent which drifts all around them.

It becomes the most beautiful flower Alphonse has ever seen.

Alphonse draws in a sharp gasp as the light disappears back into the ground-- it neither crackles into heat nor leaves behind the smell of ozone-- and he drops his head.

“It’s--” May’s voice breaks, and she clears her throat. “It’s a cut flower, so it will survive for only a few days before it wilts again. Here."

She brings his hands together so he can cradle the large, rosy flower. He becomes very still, afraid it would break with the slightest motion. His gaze does not move from the revived lotus blossom. Shao Mei wanders close and smells it curiously, then decides to nibble on Alphonse’s pinky. He laughs shakily.

“Did I do it?” Alphonse asks. “Was that alkahestry?”

“What did it feel like?”

“It wasn’t alchemy. I did nothing to manipulate the chemicals, alchemy couldn’t bring a flower back to life--” He’s rambling now. “It felt like-- _redirecting_ the flow of energy. Alkahestry, it manipulates the existing without creating something new. The Pulse really _does_ exist-- not that I never doubted its presence-- we just can’t see it the same way we can study science.”

He takes a deep breath.

“How do I do it again?”

“Practice,” May says. She returns the kunai to him. “And focus the same way that you did. Your _chi_ spoke of gratitude. Maybe, for you, that’s the easiest way to connect with the earth.”

“That’s… incredible.”

May pokes his shoulder. “You don’t become a great alkahestrist immediately. It takes hard work, Alphonse Elric, but I’m sure you can do it.”

She lifts her gaze and looks at the valley. The only reason she left her home and made it this far was all for her family. She’s glad that she can share this feeling of gratefulness with one of her best friends. Her panda curls up by her knee.

“You have to find those quiet moments and hold them close. I’ll help you.”

Alphonse keeps staring at the flower.

“Quiet moments,” he repeats.

The two of them return the lotus blossom to the temple’s pond, where it persists as an offering from the people.

* * *

The mid-autumn festival traces its roots back to folklore and tradition.

More often than not, the stories described the naïvety of human nature, flooded with periodic inspiration. Civil violence spurred poets to write about grief and bravery. The romantic era introduced themes of forgiveness and reunions. Such gentler tales were met with less enthusiasm; tradition, after all, loved sacrifice.

The most popular harvest tale was how one of the constellations fell out of favor with the heavens.

After she descended from the sky, the constellation set out on a quest to climb the tallest mountain in Xing. As she made the journey, she passed by mortals who had lost their way, unable to navigate the wilds without her guidance.

There had been a pair of brothers lost in the deep dark jungles, so she plucked glittering stars from her tresses and placed them inside paper lanterns to light the way home.

Halfway up the mountain trail, she discovered a hunter with a broken leg, and the constellation fashioned bandages from her dress made of the darkest night sky.

Lastly, a nomadic clan had been hopelessly lost without the proper stars in the sky, and she gave up her voice to point them in the right direction.

At the mountain summit, stripped of everything that made her a constellation or a guide for travelers, the heavens did not recognize her once celestial-form.

Then there was firelight and noise of celebration far, far below in the world of mortals. It came from a village who celebrated the return of their lost family members-- a pair of boys, a hunter, and distant relatives-- with evidence of the constellation’s aid.

This drew the heavens’ attention and while they could not return her stars, they placed her on the moon. She could shine brightly and continue to lead travelers to their destinations.

The wounded hunter later became successor to the royal throne. The palace performed a harvest festival during the autumn full moon to honor kindness in strangers, changes in the season and individual, and the return of loved ones.

Other versions added that the hunter and the constellation would meet in the darkness of the new moon after each festival, until the former’s mortal death.

* * *

The full moon hangs patiently, calmly, in the distant skies as the first of the visitors rattle into the village on oxen-drawn carts. May is the honorary host, responsible for cordially greeting each person who wished to meet the princess. Some traveled from the capital or the far corners of the country. They all have origins in the Chang clan.

Once the guests have arrived, they gather in the town hall and sit down for the harvest meal. Other families host smaller gatherings in their own homes; this one is meant for the elders, the alchemist, and the princess.

The food is warm and filled with spices, a nice contrast to the past days’ rainy weather. The mixed scent of jasmine and sandalwood wafts around in the hall as each wall shrine are lit in honor of the festival.

The clan elders tell Alphonse about their favorite harvest festival stories: a constellation who became the moon, adventurers who sought cures in dragon’s blood, and cunning war generals hiding notes in baked mooncakes.

Those who are able to make the journey through the valleys take a basket of homemade desserts and sweets, and clamber on a waiting wagon. They exchange gifts and well wishes in one neighborhood, then continue to the next to repeat the cycle.

Upon their return to the main village, May Chang grabs a packet of fresh chalk and she chases the other children out of the humble town square. Alphonse sinks his fingers in the ground and transmutes a thin, smooth layer of stone over the dirt and hay-strewn area.

The clansmen (and Shao Mei) watch with wide eyes as they dance, throwing jibes and compliments with huge grins.

Slowly, the two of them create a huge alchemical circle with strange sigils and runes wholly unlike yet similar to the country’s alkahestry. A few brave children begin to play hopscotch with the foreign shapes, careful not to smudge the thick, chalk lines.

As the sun finally begins to duck behind the mountains, Alphonse and May look at each other.

“Ready?” Alphonse asks.

May nods. Then she raises her voice and it rings through the village, carried by a gentle autumn breeze. “My name is Princess May Chang,” she announces to their enraptured audience, “and I am proud to introduce my friend, the Heartbeat Alchemist!”

Alphonse bows.

“Tonight, we would like to show what we have learned in alkahestry and alchemy.”

May and Alphonse crouch down and set their hands on the chalk lines at the same time. Crackling lightning illuminates the darkening skies for a brief moment.

The alkahestrist summons a dragon-like creature from stone.

The alchemist transmutes a familiar suit of vintage armor wielding a sword.

Just like shadow-puppets, their creations face off in a battle to the death, eliciting gasps and delighted screams from their engaged audience. The two of them rehearsed a miniature version in May’s compound even though there had never been a clear winner. Exchanging a look of glee, May and Alphonse start to pace around the circle.

She moves first. May extracts daggers from her sleeves and throws them directly at the armor, too big and bulky to dodge out of the way.

It pierces the flat, broad back of the suit. She scrapes a hasty pentacle in the dirt, but Alphonse stomps his foot and shifts the earth several feet to the right--

\--but he forgets how quick and agile May is, as she leaps effortlessly over her stone dragon’s tail and lands directly on the alkahestry array.

The suit of armor explodes in a burst of dust. When it is visible once more, she sees Alphonse has already repaired most of its midsection. May clasps her hands together and points at the dragon, pulling its gaze towards the wounded opponent.

It opens its maw, wide and deep, filled with rows of pointed teeth and it snaps viciously.

Alphonse manages to transmute a short bar which the suit of armor jams vertically in the mouth. The dragon reels away, unable to close its jaws. It eventually crushes the obstruction, but not before the suit seizes the dragon’s mane with two hands and hurls the beast across the town square.

The golden-haired alchemist flicks his wrist and catches the dragon with a stout column hand before it crashes into the audience. Applause ripples through the crowd.

“Getting tired?” he shouts over to May.

“You wish!”

May and Alphonse hurl their respective crafts at each other within their medium, neither able to counter the strengths of alkahestry’s long-range influence or alchemy’s creative transmutations. Their stone champions chip little by little. A handful of neighboring clansmen come running to join the audience, the lights and noise reaching the further towns.

Something black-and-white darts between his feet and Alphonse stumbles momentarily. He looks down. Shao Mei grins with her sharp, little fangs--

\--and suddenly his suit of armor has been flanked by two smaller, snarling chimeras, similar to the one he saw at the temple.

Heart pounding at the sight of unexpected opponents, Alphonse focuses all of his attention to grab the chimeras with stone fists as they leap through the air. He smashes them into the ground til they melt back into the arena stone.

Unfortunately, the panda’s distraction worked-- he snaps his gaze back up and the dragon has seized the armor, shaking its head like a dog with a chew toy.

May, seeing a clear victory in her favor, drops and uses the alchemy circle to add to the dragon’s scale armor, adding spikes along its thrashing tail.

His hands move of their own accord.

Alphonse has never worked on remote transmutation before, but then there’s a flash of steel, and his kunai sink into the dragon’s front leg. His pulse is too fast, too incoherent to focus on.

He splays his palms on the ground. There’s no time to draw a pentacle, but he fixes his eyes on the alchemy circle and sees the lines overlap and cross--

It’s messy and obscure, but it’ll have to do--

Alphonse looks up, and focuses one of the pink blossoms in May’s long, dark braids.

_Quiet moments._

He swears, his heart skips a beat a moment before the stone dragon’s leg explodes in an enormous cloud of dust.

Shao Mei jumps up on his shoulder and clings to his clothes. From behind, May catches up to his silhouette in the dust and grabs his hand. She doesn’t say anything, so he doesn’t either. They squeeze hands and wait for the dust to clear.

The stone dragon buckles with the loss of its shattered leg and half of its torso, but it still manages to stand and glower at the suit of armor, which had been thrown across the square. The entire front of its chest had caved in, and with gentle coaxing from a twitch of a wrist, it pushes itself upright and stares back.

“I think it might be a tie,” Alphonse says breathlessly.

The Chang clan vehemently agrees, clapping and cheering at the spectacle.

May and Alphonse bow once more, then slowly allow their warriors to melt back into the stone. Instead of reverting completely into dirt and mud, the smoothed stone settles in front of the town hall as a place for alkahestrists (and perhaps alchemists, one day) to practice their craft.

Alphonse slumps against May and she shrieks under his sudden weight. “I am exhausted,” he announces, and Shao Mei chitters in agreement. “No more from me tonight.”

“Let’s go home, then.”

They make their rounds to the elders and wish them a good harvest festival before retiring to May’s home. On the way, she frets about his first attempt at remote transmutation. He promises to draw a proper pentacle next time, but part of him relishes in the successful improvisation. They kick off their shoes and unbutton their tight frog collars.

Two envelopes are waiting for them on the dining room table. The slimmer, more delicate one bears a royal seal, so May opens it first.

_To our dear Princess and Heartbeat Alchemist,_

_We at the Xing palace wish you a very prosperous mid-autumn festival. May, may your clan’s harvest season be full as the moon. Jerso and Zampano send their happy regards. Together with Lan Fan, Greed, and myself, we all look forward to your return in the next few days. Please enjoy the festivities._

_Best, Ling Yao_

_P.S. May, we confirmed your spring events._

_P.P.S. This other letter arrived earlier in the morn after clearing customs._

The thicker, heavier envelope is addressed only to _Mister Alphonse Elric, Emperor’s Palace, Xing_.

Though it has no return address, Alphonse immediately recognizes the dirty smudges and cramped handwriting. “It’s from Edward,” he exclaims.

Inside are at least a dozen papers with different dates and ink colors. He searches for the one with the earliest date and reads it aloud:

_~~Dear Alphonse~~ _ ~~~~

_Dear HEARTBEAT ALCHEMIST,_

_I heard that you got your certification as a State Alchemist! Congrats! Wish we could’ve celebrated together. But I guess we’re on opposite sides of the world. Hope Xing is treating you well. Are you learning alkahestry? Or martial arts? When are you going to cross over to the further eastern countries?_

The later letters detail his travels and adventures thus far, including a non-violent skirmish at the border, stumbling across familiar friends ( _Paninya hijacked the first train even though I paid for her ticket,_ writes Edward), and his studies about Creta’s divination-based craft.

_It’s very unlike alchemy or alkahestry. First of all, they don’t even use arrays. Diviners, or tarot readers, usually sit you down and read your past and future by drawing a handful of colorful cards. I’ve mailed a deck to you._

_Al, some of these cards are weirdly accurate. It goes beyond coincidence. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe there are spies. Maybe they know about us. I need to do some more research._

_Write back. Send your letters to the Amestrian embassy in the Creta capital. They’ll find me. I might have picked up an odd job here and there._

Alphonse shakes out an ornate deck of cards tied in a dark blue ribbon.  He tugs at the ribbon and shuffles through the tarot deck, marveling at its charcoal black borders and glittering golden lines. The names of the cards wink past as he scans the first few cards: _The Fool, The Magician, The Hierophant_.

He turns over the deck and holds it out to May.

“Pick a card, any card.”

The princess raises her eyebrows. She draws a card, then shows it to him.

It’s a gray fortress being destroyed by yellow streaks of lightning. The design catches the low gaslight and for a moment, they glimpse the near-translucent, leering skeletons being thrown off _The Tower_.

“Is this supposed to be a good thing?”

“I have no idea,” he admits.

“Maybe Edward can mail a guide next time.”

They sit in the dining room, sharing a pot of hot chocolate and a plate of almond cookies, playing with the Cretan deck and commenting on its unusually morbid art style. The panda, as usual, drifts off to sleep in May’s lap and interrupts the conversation with the occasional snore.

Alphonse can imagine his brother being bowled over with the uncommon practice, the same way he confronted alkahestry in Xing. “You think reading tarot requires intuition?” he asks May.

“Probably. Xingese folklore speaks of soothsayers who would read the future in the star alignments, or the circumstances of a birth. The practice still exists in the far, far south.” She sips her cocoa drink. “Ling could give you special permission to travel. When _are_ you going to leave Xing?”

“I hoped that we would solve the chimera problem first. But,” Alphonse sighs, “we might have to look elsewhere for an answer. If I had to guess, maybe another two or three weeks before I should start to make my leave.”

He draws another card and studies _The Chariot’s_ ink-laden spoked wheels.

“May,” Alphonse says slowly, “would you-- I mean, do you want to come with me for the rest of my trip? I’ll pass by Xing on the way back to Amestris, but when I leave in a few weeks-- do you want to come, too?”

May wraps her hands around the warm drink. Her answer comes easily, and without a trace of hesitation.

“I can’t,” she tells him. “I have court responsibilities. For now, or for the rest of the year, I need to stay here. I think my duty to the country comes first.” May reaches up and starts to remove the pink blossoms from her braids. She sets down one, two, then six flowers on the table and thumbs over their soft petals. “Thank you, Alphonse. But not right now.”

“I’m glad that I asked,” he says. “I’m really happy that I could be here with you.”

“Me too.”

“And about the heartbeat alchemy, like we talked about on the train--”

“Still struggling to control your pulse?”

Alphonse thinks about his chaotic attempt at long-range transmutation. “I can always work towards being better. And maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect all the time.”

May hides a smile behind her cup. “I wish you could see all the progress you’ve already made.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

* * *

In the days that followed the court incident, branded as an isolated attack against the esteemed emperor, Ling was overwhelmed with attention and responsibility.

His masked bodyguard advised the chimeras to make themselves sparse in the immediate consequence; Jerso and Zampano spend time in a nearby clan, safe and looked after.

Ling and Lan Fan debated their priorities during the investigation. Lan Fan wanted to reschedule their meeting with General Mustang while he was willing to prioritize the chimeras.

“My lord,” Lan Fan said through gritted teeth, “May I remind you that this country needs your guidance and reassurance?”

“The court can handle the publicity while we are away--”

“The _court_ was responsible for inviting the apprentice who nearly killed Alphonse and Greed.”

There is not much to argue against.

There had also been immense pressure to increase security. This proved difficult as most alkahestrists carried weapons and advisors brought their own armed entourage. Lan Fan is not willing to blame her soldiers; nonetheless she will take the brunt of the people’s rage if it will soften accusations against an emperor’s incompetence.

“You _must_ remember.” Lan Fan had stressed each word, stretching it taut and tense. “Xing _must_ come first.”

So Ling relented and made a few statements regarding the attack. He promised a swift judgement upon the assassin, who had yet to show remorse. Once upon a time, the guilty party’s clan would have been charged with treasonous intentions.

He does not blame the clan for its sole deviant, however emphasized there would be no mercy for traitors. News coverage painted the image of a young, unsmiling emperor, and some shivered at the ruthlessness within his calm.

Public approval wavered, but mostly remained level. The clans reinforced their vocal support for the throne, though it’s impossible to discern lies in fifty letters with fifty different seals. Lan Fan finally whisked him and the alchemical flask on a train toward the Amenstrian rendezvous.

They returned bearing secrets that did not belong to them.

Ling takes up temporary residence in the former emperor’s quarters. It remains in the compound yet distant from the eyes of the outside. As he walks through its narrow, dark red timber halls, he sometimes feels his father’s gaze on his back. Watching. Waiting. By the ancestors, Ling Yao has done nothing wrong. Not yet.

He scatters the laboratory reports on his bedroom floor and lets the hours tick into early mornings as he reads the papers over and over again.

Ling often wakes with holding a blanket that was not there before. Lan Fan would be seated cross-legged and awake because she, too, reads diligently by firelight. The flask keeps them company.

They have yet to reach the Dublith chimeras’ profiles. Ling mentioned his concerns to Lan Fan in passing between meetings as Greed waited for their return.

_I know that you may not understand,_ he’d whispered to his second shadow. _I think he will be sad. Perhaps it can offer closure._

Lan Fan truly does not understand Greed like Ling does, but she appreciates the honesty.

The harvest festival offers a moment away from the haunting reports. Ling dons the white traditional robe waiting in his closet and this year, he notes that there is a thick stripe on the hems of his sleeves. Its vermillion color reminds him of the Philosopher’s Stone. Just as he adjusts the sash around his waist, Lan Fan appears at his side.

She holds a package in her arms. “Courtesy of the palace.”

It is a last-minute creation by the royal tailors, who pricked their fingers over a magnificent, embroidered cape. The fabric brushes along the ground as Lan Fan secures it around his shoulders.

She can’t help but skim her fingers over its raised designs: coasting mountains, winding rivers, roaring flames, and dragons chasing their own tails. Every movement causes the illustrations to gleam like molten gold.

Lan Fan looks up, and meets his waiting gaze in the mirror.

“I see that you’ve modified your automail,” Ling remarks.

The blade which once curled past her elbow made its return, silver glinting against the black carbon sleeve. It sings of Amestrian memories. “I thought… it would be interesting to have something different. At least for tonight.”

“It looks good.”

“Thank you.”

Her mask hangs round her neck. Its permanent scowl and harrowed gaze serves its purpose-- it intimidates her opponents and hides her fear in the midst of battle. Ling remembers sparring with her. How he’s been thrown off guard by her dark brows, twisted look of fierce concentration. He recalls that brief, victorious sigh when she knocks the wind out of him.

Gods, he’s been so blessed to have someone as remarkable as Lan Fan by his side.

“What are you thinking about?” asks Lan Fan.

A smile flickers across his pale face. “Such extraordinary circumstances allowed us to be here. I might be grateful, for once.”

The Emperor of Xing stirs a murmur through the palace courtyard, vast and crowded with clansmen from all over. In recent years, the mid-autumn celebration was made more accessible to the public and Ling is pleased to see clan colors from the furthest edges of the country. He welcomes Jerso and Zampano back from their tour, and tells them to thoroughly enjoy the festivities.

Famed orators take to the stage and spill the secrets of ancient histories, often with a romantic or cunning spin on the story. The young man smiles when a child no higher than his knees offers him a basket of mooncakes. The jovial music from bands gives way to waltz-like, lilting music as the stars blink into the twilight sky.

No one knows who lights the first paper lantern as it emits a candle blur against the shadows of the country’s people.

Families and court advisors alike extract their own lanterns. With a flash of flint and a whispered wish, it illuminates the people of Xing. Some lanterns are heirlooms or passed down through the generations or dowry. Others are simply made of paper. Meant to burn for this sole occasion.

Ling looks up at the glittering sky and then down, to the thousands of soft lights, seeing the people of Xing reflect the night constellations.

No other dynasty has commanded beauty from reconciliation.

He eventually retires to his quarters, escorted by Lan Fan. Before he enters the building--

Lan Fan removes her mask and hands him a box of matches.

“I bought this the other day.”

In her automail hand, she gingerly balances a lantern made of bamboo and rice-paper. Its texture reminds him of a hastily scrawled promise he’d left in the Yao compound before racing to the desert border. Unsure of who would believe him, only that Lan Fan and her grandfather would follow close behind.

“Make a wish,” Ling tells her as he strikes a match.

“No, my lord, it is meant for you.”

“I insist. Hurry, the match will run out--”

The heat starts to singe his fingers and Lan Fan murmurs something unintelligible. Satisfied, Ling breathes life into the lantern.

The bodyguard carefully hooks the rice-paper lantern from the building’s low soffits, and it sways with the breeze. The delicate flame will not last through the night. Still, the two of them appreciate it for a moment.

Ling looks at Lan Fan. “What was your wish?”

“I wished that you would light the lantern.” She then replaces her mask. “I will make my rounds and return shortly.” Lan Fan closes the door behind him, shutting out the noise of the ongoing festival. The dim glow of their lantern shines through the paned glass window.

Ling trudges to his bedroom, her absence deeply felt. Undoing his twisted locks and wiping makeup from his face and hands, he sneaks a glance over to the writing desk. It’s not hard to miss the white eyes from the depths of crimson.

**Nice cape.**

“You like it? It might be too stunning.”

**This is a once-a-year kind of outfit, right?**

“Once a year,” Ling agrees. “And it changes every year. I’ll never see this cloak again.” He crosses his arms and leans against the desk. “What’s the point of owning anything if I can’t wear them for future occasions?”

The crimson wisps curl and collect at the base of the flask. **There are other ways to keep it. Like in a museum,** Greed tells him. **Aren’t you the emperor? Don’t you get to rewrite traditions?**

“It’s not that simple. Legacies come first. Then museums.” He gestures over to the stacks of paper. “I was going to read some more. Would you like a change in scenery?”

**Absolutely. As much as I admire the wallpaper from this angle--**

His sarcastic remarks break off as Ling picks up the flask, its warmth barely noticeable against his chilly hands. He sits down on the floor.

The cape’s heavy, golden fabric billows, then settles like a fan around his lean figure.

Ling places Greed-- well, there’s scarcely any room besides the giant cloak and the stacks of papers, so he gently sets him down on a corner of the fabric.

It took a few days to coax any sort of conversation from the flask. They thought it was his indignation for being trapped, but as Greed begins to speak more and interact, he seems more comfortable and at ease with his former friends.

There are occasions of his violent outbursts, of jagged spikes curling at the ends of his wisps. His temper is like a flash fire: sudden, intense, short-lived.

**When are we going to talk about the Dublith chimeras?**

Ling tries to look surprised.

**Don’t give me that look. I know you’ve been trying to avoid that part of our-- of my past. Are you afraid that I’ll break?** Everything about his tone suggests that nothing Ling says could ever appease him. So he stays quiet and lets Greed talk. **I want to see those papers.**

He could defer the conversation for another time--

\--but Ling does not want to just _appease_ Greed’s avarice. He wants to comfort and let him grieve for his soul friends. It is condolence or understanding or hope that opens the folders, seek out the wanted section, and lays the papers in front of the flask.

Their real names were replaced with random numbers and letters, then re-dubbed by Greed. Named _Martel_ , _Dolcetto_ , _Roa_ , as if they’d glanced at a shelf of booze and called dibs. Other chimeras clung to their nicknames and what they could bear to claim from before.

The scientists measured their worth in height, weight, physical duress, and intelligence. Some liked being powerful chimeras; some did not. None liked the torment they experienced as lab subjects.

Greed reveals little about how the chimeras fled Central, only that they crossed paths with the Homunculus and struck a deal. Work as mercenaries. Be paid in money and protection. Trust each other _. Outcasts, outcasts._ The label settled in the heart and mind, bolstered with each year of freedom.

The wind whispered, _That’s the Devil’s Nest_ , and the name stuck.

Greed moves jerkily around in the flask. Ling gets the feeling that if he had a body, he’d been pacing the floor, grabbing and crumpling the papers in his hands. Examining the stiff, formal photographs and sketches intensely.

Ling picks up a photo of a stout man with short, spiky hair. The chimera looks serious and doleful while wearing simple hospital gowns, but in Ling’s soul, he remembers someone else.

Grinning, loyal, and mercilessly teased by his friends. “Dolcetto,” he says, tasting the name. “He was a swordsman. Dog chimera. Huh. He would’ve made a pretty good bodyguard.”

Greed agrees.

“Martel and Roa.”

The blonde woman with green flinty eyes, slick in her words and manners, is petite next to the silver-haired, gentle brute in one of the grainy pictures.

“They kept the chimeras from fighting each other. Always reliable. Roa-- he took off your head more than once. After a while, it started being fun, I guess.”

Ling rubs his neck, as if he could feel the ache from borrowed memories.

He tries to remember as much as he can for Greed. Ling wonders, did he ever mourn for others in his two hundred years? Perhaps no one else were as close to the Homunculus as the Dublith chimeras had once been.

“I’m sorry for what happened to them.”

**They were mine. They were...**

“More than friends, more like family,” Ling finishes.

Greed side-eyes him. **And how could you know so much?**

“I told you already. When you let people into your lives, they leave a mark on your _chi_. Whatever you feel for them,” Ling says, pressing a hand to his chest, “I might understand. Not completely, but we share many things.”

**Is it harder now that we’re separate?**

“A little. But there are some things worth remembering.”

**We had a pretty good run together.**

He leans back on his forearms and yawns. The hearth warms the room as talk slowly shifts away from grief. “I think I would have liked your chimera family,” he says. “But they would create so much havoc in the palace. Running all over the place. Thieving, fighting, being themselves.”

Greed barks a laugh. **What a thought.**

It hurts, though it’s nice to entertain what could have been. Greed does not want to think about when he led the past straight into their Dublith home, or that he’d killed his chimeras.

He doesn’t remember seeing his chimeras on the ‘other side’ when he died, but wishing, dreaming about them in better times... it’s a human folly, and one that Greed is willing to tolerate for a few minutes.

* * *

_Dear Lan Fan,_

_We figured the fastest way to reach the capital would be through_ _you_ _instead of addressing the letter to Ling (it was May’s idea -Alphonse). We’re coming back at the week’s end, but we’d like to update everyone about our progress._

_Your advice about training in places that are less inhibited by noise and people was very helpful! Alphonse has been making good headway on alkahestry. After the harvest festival, we discovered older texts dating all the way back to the first alkahestrists. Alphonse had no trouble deciphering notes left behind by “The Philosopher of the West”._

_We found a way to help for our chimera friends. The easiest way we can explain it is: alchemy for deconstruction and alkahestry for medical transmutation. Jerso and Zampano may have to rely on prosthetics or automail if the crafts cannot substitute for their missing human halves but we’ll ask for a second and a third opinion from other alchemists (like Edward) before we actually do anything._

_It might be possible to focus on alkahestry-alchemy to revert the chimera process. While it needs further research on Alphonse’s part, we could achieve good results._

_Alternatively-- and this should be discussed with everyone present-- we can achieve the same results at a much faster pace with the Philosopher’s Stone (unsure if it affects Ling’s status as emperor). Doctor Marcoh had some reservations, but he doesn’t know the Purification Arts like May does. Plus, we’ve been working at this for a long time._

_And that’s all we have to report. Hope everyone had a very nice mid-autumn festival!_

_Sincerely,_

_May Chang & Alphonse Elric_

* * *

He wakes in the early morning hours. Heart pounding in his ears, Ling rolls over in the bed and wrenches open the nightstand drawer. His hand curls around a small vial.

Immediate relief sings through his body and he sinks back on the pillows, examining the Philosopher’s Stone in the dim firelight.

The letter from Alphonse and May raised their spirits and more questions.

The Stone is evidence of change and corrupt. Could the Philosopher’s Stone assist the chimeras, and do good despite its vile origins?

Then there was the matter of Greed, who could take the Stone to create a new body.

It should not be a decision between the chimeras and the Homunculus. Even Lan Fan looked distraught that they would have to choose between their friends’ goals.

Furthermore, if used up completely, how would its loss affect Ling’s reputation as the emperor? The Stone is more like myth and legend, and Ling does not want to be selfish to preserve it as a keepsake.

Power, success, his claim to the throne-- all in a glass bottle.

He senses Greed’s _chi_ stir as the Homunculus comes to consciousness. Ling faintly remembers Lan Fan ushering him to bed, then setting the flask on the bedstand.

Large white eyes twitch open.

“Sorry for waking you.”

Greed grumbles under his breath.

“I think... that when Alphonse comes back, we should talk about getting you out of that flask.”

**About time.**

“Lan Fan will have some thoughts on it. We’ll need to give you papers, an identity, and a purpose for simply appearing in the middle of the capital.” He can already feel the headache gnawing at these imagined scenarios.

**What if I don’t want to stay in Xing?**

Something sticks in his throat. It tastes like dread. “I don’t own you. No one does. You can go anywhere and do anything you want.”

**And your _chi_? Aren’t I supposed to look after a piece of your soul?**

“Huh. I didn’t think that you would be concerned about me.”

Wrong choice of words. The red mist shivers and forms jagged spikes as Greed glares at the young emperor. **Not concerned--** He fumes for a moment, unwilling to admit that he cares for him and at the same time, indignant that Ling assumes his indifference.

Then he spies Ling’s small grin, and he realizes that he has been duped.

**Stop smiling. Dumbass.**

“You’re the one thinking about leaving us again.”

Maybe _again_ wasn’t supposed to be there, because a trickle of anger flares in each of their souls.

_Leaving us._

_Again._

**What the hell do you mean--** If Greed could shatter the flask and strangle Ling, he’d do it in a heartbeat-- **Again? _Again?_ You think I _enjoyed_ being destroyed--**

“Never, I never said that. But I would have fought the entire world to keep you with me, Greed, and I damn well tried.” His breathing is shaky. “You forced me to let go.”

**It was all I could do!** Greed snarls. **For all the good and bad that I ever did, now I’m trapped in this like another Homunculus in the Flask, just like the old man-- I don’t care if it’s a new body or yours, I want out!**

_Like father, like son._ Emperors and Homunculi. Even alchemists, as Alphonse struggles to find his father’s skills. The past loves to repeat itself.

Ling draws in a sharp breath. “You’re not just any Homunculus,” he says in a level voice. “You’re _Greed_. There’s no one else like you. You’re my friend.”

**A friend?** **Oh, wonderful. That fixes everything.**

“You’re my _friend_. And to Lan Fan, and Alphonse, and--”

**Bullshit.**

“It’s not bullshit.”

**Bull. Shit.**

Ling covers his face and groans. The silk underneath him feels wrong; it feels like a reminder of his role as a country’s emperor, and not a teenager who is completely exhausted with Greed’s complex nature.

The Avaricious doesn’t even allow him a moment of quiet. Baring his fanged maw, he sneers, **Hate to break it to you, Ling, but I know what I want.**

“A new body. That’s it?”

**That’s all that matters.**

He closes his fist around the vial again. Its sheer surface feels like dying embers against his skin. Bearable, and only such. “Okay,” Ling says softly, his eyes still shut. “Okay, Greed. I don’t want to keep you in that flask anymore. Except you have to answer me honestly.”

His voice is hollow; his question hangs in the quiet of the bedroom and hauls them back to their last moments together as soul and sin.

“Why did you do it? Why did you let go?”

**I wanted--**

When they’d been in one body, they clashed time and time again. Screaming in each other’s faces. Trying to be heard over the din of the outside battles. Strange as it seems, it had been less painless to communicate their thoughts and feelings.

Greed takes his time to answer, though it seems simple to fathom.

**I wanted to save you.**

“You _did_ save me. You saved everyone.” A pause. “And then you left me.”

**I had to.**

The crimson vial scorches his palm. Ling opens his dark eyes. “We mourned for you. We grieved.”

The tentative, shy response which comes from this devilish being startles them both. **So why did you bring me back?**

The _harsh_ truth is that they only cared about Ling’s stowaway _chi_. Greed wants to hear it from the boy himself. He wants to make it easier to hate being trapped in the flask, and despise being brought back to this plane after all of his sacrifices.

Avarice _wants_ , but Ling defies him like the insolent prince he is--

“Because you’re my friend,” Ling repeats calmly. “And when I learned that there was a chance that I could have you back, here with all of us--”

He stretches out his hand, the one free of the Stone’s coaxing presence. There is a thin white scar from the recent knife cut when Ling added his blood to the flask. His fingers brush lightly against the surface of the flask.

For the first time since coming back, Greed doesn’t flinch.

“--I was scared that I would lose you again.”

Does Ling have any idea how much his words sink like a dagger? Forget that, physical death is child’s play compared to the sincerity in this _kind_ truth-- Greed does not want to believe, he does not want to trust--

**Not because… of your soul? Your _chi_?**

He laughs softly. “I can’t tell the difference between our souls anymore. Certainly not when we were stuck in one body, and not now.”

**You’re being honest? Don’t lie to me, Ling, I--**

His low voice breaks off.

The young emperor turns on his side and slides the Philosopher’s Stone underneath his pillow, keeping a hand on the warmth. “I’ve always been honest with you,” says Ling. “And when Alphonse comes back, we’ll talk more. Go back to sleep. I won’t wake you again, I promise.”

He waits for those unnatural white eyes to close, before he does the same.

* * *

 

After seeing her liege off to his morning meetings and entrusting the chain of command to the other retainers, Lan Fan retires to her own personal quarters. She slowly adjusted to the role of managing the emperor’s protection detail at the same time Ling’s father taught him how to rule the country. Most of the time, Lan Fan took night shifts. She always accompanied him to public appearances beyond the court.

But whenever he was in session, Lan Fan could find a few hours to herself. She did everything but train and fight; she tried to keep that part of her life distant from the quiet she’s successfully preserved for the past few years.

However, she has a guest this time.

**Just you and me, huh?**

“Yep.”

Lan Fan places the flask on a bookshelf filled with novels in various languages. Among the Amenstrian books, Greed sees a fair balance between strategy essays, poems, and old epics. There are also black-and-white photos, clearly worn at the edges.

She unbuckles the light armor and tosses it on the floor, along with the belt and pullover hood. From a closet, Lan Fan drags a large, noisy duffel bag, and opens it. It’s stuffed with wrenches, screwdrivers, and pliers, as well as other tools one would recognize in an automail shop.

Without saying another word, she sits down and starts on maintenance. She learned the routine quickly, having seen Edward Elric’s automail shatter upon continuous impact. Lan Fan relied more on speed and lethality. Still, she would not risk a mechanical mishap for the emperor’s life.

The Amestrian blade, the one that curls past her elbow, can be easily retracted into the forearm sleeve. Lan Fan decides that it adds unnecessary weight, so she begins unscrewing the connecting bolts. The angle is difficult and she must use a handheld mirror to work properly.

It is slow, patient work.

Greed cranes his head to look over at the prosthetic. **It looks different than I remember,** he remarks.

“Well,” Lan Fan says, “the silver plates attracted attention. When Ling commissioned a sword from the armory, I thought it would be wise to match the carbon-based design.”

Screwheads clatter to the table. Lan Fan carefully removes the blade and sets it on a cloth. She ignores the twinge of pain coursing through her shoulder and neck. Her keloid scars itch but she ignores those, too.

“I overheard your conversation about being a Homunculus in a flask,” Lan Fan says suddenly. As if on cue, Greed scowls. “You understand that whatever we talk about stays between us, yes?”

Information, subterfuge, a bodyguard talking behind her emperor’s back? Greed knows that Lan Fan would never turn against her emperor, yet something about her no-nonsense tone convinces him to agree. **Oh, yes.**

“There’s not much I can say to make you feel better. I don’t know how to do that. You _are_ a Homunculus, and you _are_ in a flask.” She fumbles with a slim pair of tweezers to replace the cap, occasionally checking mirror alignment. “To say otherwise would be denying the truth. But you are not the same as the one we defeated, just as Ling is not like his father.

“The previous emperor was a man who cared very little for the smaller clans. He profited from the blood feuds between his children. He liked the prizes and riches that they presented in hopes to take the throne. Ling helped the Yao clan with his ascension, but more importantly--”

Lan Fan points the butt of the screwdriver at the flask--

“He is a good man, and he does his best to guide Xing.”

Greed smirks. **Such devotion to your king.**

She returns her gaze to the automail. “Nothing less.”

**And are you going to say, ‘I’m not like my own father’, or ‘I’ve done good’, or something like that?**

“That’s not my responsibility,” Lan Fan says firmly.

Greed blinks in surprise.

He recalls her stubborn tendency to shadow the Homunculus whenever he strayed too close to cities and towns. His Philosopher’s Stone was a beacon for Xingese bodyguards to show up in the dead of night and profess loyalty to the body he wore. Lan Fan was persistent and unyielding in her beliefs-- Greed grudgingly thinks, _she still is._

(It makes him wonder who would win a fight.)

“It’s not Ling’s responsibility, either.”

**Never said it was.**

“No. However, we’d like to help you feel better,” Lan Fan continues and finally cants her gaze toward the flask, “because I think that we are friends.”

**Really?**

“I am also not thrilled by this revelation,” she says dryly, though a sincere smile flickers across her face.

Greed settles, quietly pleased, and Lan Fan has some silence to work on her automail arm. She flexes her wrist. Tests the grip strength. Talc powder on the underarm to prevent chafing. On the keloids, too, else she’ll go mad with the itching. She turns her attention back to the separated blade.

Looking up from time to time, it seems that Homunculus’s attention is elsewhere.

“What are you looking at?”

Greed flicks his eyes over the black-and-white family portraits. Her folks dressed in traditional wear, but in some of the photos, they held distinctly remarkable masks. **Nice family.**

“Did you recognize my grandfather?”

**Where?** He squints closely. And then he sees it: In his younger years, Fu has the same sharp jawline and furrowed brow. **He _always_ had that grumpy look, huh?**

Greed sees another photo with hints of silver streaks in Fu’s dark hair. His hands rest on the shoulders of an adolescent girl with too-familiar wide, black eyes.

Both have swords strapped at their belts and the same formidable look in their eyes, the corners of their mouths lifted in a grin. The pride in their responsibilities as protectors of royal blood is indisputable. It seems strange to see Fu smile from beyond the grave.

Maybe he should console her for Fu’s death--

Instead, Greed watches Lan Fan dab a bit of oil on cloth and wipe down the blade. Her hands work swiftly and steadily with practiced ease. She carefully tends to the automail, the once-mark of her failure.

**Your grandfather was a brave man.**

“I know.” She smiles. “And if you ever find yourself in the Yao territory, there is a garden within the royal compound with pagodas, bridges, and a stone pavilion.” Her words paint a clear, vivid picture to imagine. “There is also a pond filled with koi fish. One of them is a black and white fish without orange, and it is to help remember Fu.”

**Neat.** Greed frowns. **Why a fish?**

“Koi fish often swim upstream, so we recognize them for their perseverance and good luck.” His crimson reflection materializes within the blade’s sheen. “And their ambition.”

Greed at last realizes that Lan Fan does not need comfort. She has made peace with death, the lively staple in her everyday experience.

She might believe in her culture’s realm of the dead or the idea of the soul returning to the earth; the times when tradition greets you like a relative, assuring that one is not alone in these challenges.

The bodyguard did everything to assure that her grandfather’s soul would be at rest: She burned joss paper, incense sticks, she bowed and prayed, and then she moved on.

Lan Fan did her share of mourning, and she has become stronger and wiser with his memory.

Greed wants that peace. He wants the forgiveness that lives in her heart; the power to absolve doubts and mistakes.

“Are you excited for Alphonse and May’s return?”

**Sure. We get to talk about escaping from this flask.**

“I hope you’ll stay around for a while.”

He scoffs. **You and everyone else.**

“Well, I won’t speak for others, but the young lord noted your absence deeply.”

**And you?**

“I did not want to miss you.” Her words are measured cautiously like a dose of bitter medicine. “I thought I would not miss the person who stole Ling’s body. Learning that your last act was to save him… my gratitude is due. I cannot help it.” Lan Fan jabs a finger in his direction again. “Do not take it as a compliment. I remember your ego, Greed.”

The Homunculus smirks. **Whatever we talk about… we don’t mention to Ling, right?**

His growl doesn’t lose its rough timbre, but it becomes unexpectedly impish.

**He keeps blabbing about how he knows me because from of how our souls are fused together. I don’t think he realizes that I know him, too.** **I know his soul, his _chi_ … and how it feels for you.**

Her hands pause in their rhythmic movements.

**Ling might not be able to say a lot as an emperor. I’m just a Homunculus in a flask, and social customs offers nothing for me. The kid defied what was expected of him. He’s thankful that you were there with him. Eh, _more_ than thankful.**

She slowly wraps a white cloth around the blade. Lan Fan eyes Greed warily. “I appreciate your honesty. I think. Why are you telling me this?”

He grins, canines gleaming and razor-sharp. **The two of you-- drive me crazy. Are you ever going to be more than just a king and his bodyguard?**

“That is-- _none_ of your business--”

**That move with the lantern, a few nights ago? Yeah, yeah, I heard that conversation. And the look on Ling’s was--**

“I’ll break your glass, Avarice.”

They would not dare admit that they enjoy talking to each other.

Not yet, anyways.

* * *

Towards the north, when mountains gave way to plains then tundras, the clansmen were considered the most adept at archery. They adhered to centuries-old hunting and tracking methods.

Recent technology introduced a fusion of past and present, creating a scene not unlike a science-fiction setting where the two halves suited their way of living.

Closer to the southwestern border, there was a city of a few thousand people solely devoted to maintaining its historical buildings. Besides being famous for its cuisine, it was also a melting pot of diverse origins.

Amestrians, Creteans, and even from immigrants from Drachma found homes in the city. It wasn’t improbable to glimpse a pair of gold-flecked eyes, although the knowledge of Xerxes died long ago with their ancestors.

These were examples of places to visit before Alphonse, Jerso, and Zampano made their official departure from Xing. Afterwards, they would take the railroad to the eastern border and continue their exploration and appreciation for other cultures. Whispers of uncommon crafts like animism and pantheism only hinted at the knowledge they could learn.

When Alphonse and May leave the Chang territory, their spirits high and arms filled with baskets of almond cookies, the elders have one more gift for him.

It is a shallow case with simple latches, its texture thin and delicate. Inside is a set of six alkahestry kunai that are near identical to May’s, except they have cobalt blue ribbons woven at their bases. Alphonse stammers his gratitude and thanks. The elders only make him promise to visit their humble home again.

It seems the friends they left in the capital are in good humour, too, as the two stumble up the palace stairs. The transmutation scars on the courtyard are still visible, but they feel almost like a distant memory.

“Welcome back,” Ling says with a wide grin. “I trust you had a wonderful time with--”

“To the library!” Zampano howls, suddenly picking up Alphonse and May under each arm. He makes a beeline for the halls as Jerso follows closely on his heels, chattering all about their experience with the harvest festival.

Ling and Lan Fan look at each other. The bodyguard shrugs, then glances down at the flask she holds within the shadows.

**To the library?**

They cram into the old archives room which has since collected more notes from Jerso and Zampano. The chimeras put a significant amount of effort into their research and for the better part of an hour, they all examine the new texts to compile for future reference.

“We want to make one thing very clear,” Jerso says, capturing everyone’s attention, “Until now, we never considered the Philosopher’s Stone as a solution.”

“After reading your letter, we reflected on the pros and cons of using the Stone,” adds Zampano. He fixes his glasses self-consciously. “But we would prefer not to use that sort of power. It’s meant for much harder challenges, for people who surely need it more than us.”

Ling leans forward. “Jerso, Zampano, if it has the chance to help--”

The chimeras grin.

“Your Highness, it solves a lot more problems if we didn’t use the Stone. It belongs to you, and you won’t have to deal with us in a few weeks. That Homunculus in the flask, however, might talk your ear off for the rest of your life.”

Arguing ceases quickly afterwards. It’s true: now that they’ve eliminated the Stone as a possible resource, it would most definitely go to Greed’s new body. Alphonse and May can concentrate wholly on their crafts.

“Based on my estimates,” Alphonse tells them, “it’ll take time to develop the proper runes and arrays for your situation. We leave Xing, make our tour across the eastern countries, and then when we return to cross over to Amestris--”

“--we should be ready to change you back to your human selves,” May finishes. “And if not, well, I’ll be in Amestris next spring, and the three of you just have to come visit me in Central.”

Their jaws drop. “What? Really?” Alphonse demands, sounding more excited than surprised. “For how long?”

Lan Fan explains. “In exchange to keep the papers we acquired from General Mustang, May volunteered to teach alkahestry.”

“For as long as I want,” the princess agrees, and her brown eyes sparkle. “Maybe a few months. Maybe a year.”

Alphonse decides to look over the Amestrian reports in hopes of finding more clues to fine-tuning his alchemy. He thinks that he will know their faces: Not solely the chimeras from Dublith, but he imagines that he’ll see Nina’s heartbroken eyes in those black-and-white photos.

Later, when he puts down the papers with shaking hands, the alchemist wonders if he’s relieved by their horrible success. To strive ahead of the pain for a second chance at life? They fought so hard to create a family in Dublith, and then--

It takes him half a day of quiet reflection and an honest conversation with May and Greed, before he rejoins the others with his usual optimism.

The days pass, much too quickly.

Alphonse and the chimeras are roped into making dumplings in the kitchen, their hands and shirts caked in flour as they watch Lan Fan expertly tuck wonton sheets around aromatic fillings. She spins tales about growing up in the Yao territory. Ling unexpectedly shows up in formal wear and manages to make a half a dozen dumplings before the startled staff chases him out of their kitchen.

Bright electric light fills the evening skies as Alphonse and May practice in the gardens. They move to the training arena as she shows him a few sparring moves for self-defense. Alphonse ends up winded on his back more times than he can count. Their laughter can be heard from down the hall as they run around and hurl kunai and stone pillars at each other.

Ling teaches Alphonse how to wield a quarterstaff, which can be quickly fashioned with alchemy and a flick of his wrist. It’s a nonlethal weapon and he strangely finds comfort in its smooth, refined texture.

Another letter arrives from Creta. Inside is an incredibly detailed sketch of a bazaar amidst narrow alleyways and arches. Watercolor paints in vivid reds and golds show the rich tapestry on market stalls, and the designs of the people’s loose-fitting kaftans and shawls. Edward writes and translates hieroglyphics in the margins of the letter, always finding a way to teach his little brother something new.

No one is sure of what happens to the court advisor who attacked Alphonse and attempted to break the flask. There are whispers, and there are rumors, but no one is sure.

The Homunculus keeps the gold-eyed alchemist company as he returns to the laboratory reports while everyone else is occupied with their own tasks. Greed talks about the chimeras in a blithe, casual tone, although there’s a glimmer of affection now and then.

In return, Alphonse shows him the scrolls they’d stumbled across in the Chang territory. Hohenheim left texts about Xerxes and the very first appearance of alchemy-alkahestry when the craft had neither name nor definition.

“I suppose,” Alphonse says, propping his chin up with a hand, “if we give you the Stone, you should be able to regenerate your own body. Most of the souls will be consumed in the process, and the rest go towards your future lives.”

**How many?**

“Depends on how much is left. Maybe twenty lives, maybe only one.” He studies the flask seriously. “When do you want to do this?”

Tomorrow, Greed decides after long deliberation.

**By the way, thank you. For telling me to talk to Ling and Lan Fan. It was…** The Homunculus struggles to voice the proper words. **It was good, I guess.**

“Really? What did you talk about?”

Greed shifts. **The truth about being here and what we wanted for each other.**

The winter cherry blossom tree shivers under the weight of the wind, and its petals drift lazily, languidly, to rest on the chalk-drawn alchemy circles on the ground below.

One by one, they gather in the garden that demands peace and tranquility. Some glance over to the past emperor’s shrine and wonder, How would their lives differ if Ling had surrendered the Philosopher’s Stone to his father?

Ling only ever entrusted the Stone to May Chang, who was the first to use its power to demonstrate feats in the courtroom. Now, he gives it to Alphonse and Greed so one may grant the other a chance to breathe, to feel touch, to escape their container.

Ling goes to stand by Lan Fan by the crooked tree. Her face is impassive.

Two shadows, unmasked in his bedroom, face each other in complete, honest confidence. They ask the same question. _Do you regret this decision?_

And they have the same answer. _No._

Jerso and Zampano keep the little panda’s attention as they watch from a distance, feeling warm yet disconnected from the scene. They might not understand why lightning crackles from the hands of children who should have a chance to be children, but they cannot question their courage nor selflessness. Nevertheless, they feel proud to be a part of the family in front of them.

Alphonse gently sets the flask in the middle of the chalk circle. “Ready?”

**What if--**

“What?”

Greed’s voice is but a whisper. **What if it’s only good enough for one life?**

Alphonse smiles his soft, kind smile. “Then make it a good life, Greed.”

He waits until he sees the Homunculus nod, whether from approval or appreciation, and then moves back to kneel next to May.

“We drew a transmutation circle to help concentrate the flow of the Stone’s power. No need to fear a rebound. Greed should be able to handle the regeneration process. Everything he needs is right here.”

He places his palms down, and so does she. Alphonse draws his power from his heartbeat while May takes hers from the multitude of sigils. Their combined lightning dances around the chalk.

It leaps and spikes the air as it nears the circle’s center. The Philosopher’s Stone starts to bubble visibly in the presence of alchemy. The hairs on Alphonse’s arm stand, not from the cold or a passing breeze, but the static that fills the air--

\--and the flask _shatters_ without warning, glass shards dashed in every direction before the lightning grinds them to dust--

\--Alphonse and May sees a flicker of crimson amidst the known blue and in their moment of uncertainty, grab each other’s hands and hold tight--

\--Lan Fan draws her singing kunai as Ling watches as the lightning bolts abruptly change to deep, dark crimson, the same color as the Stone and the Homunculus and--

\-- _something_ or _someone_ begins to take shape where the flask once existed--

\--and it _hurts_.

It takes every inch of willpower to focus on creating a body; before it was instinctive and instantaneous, but remember, _remember_ what he looked like before he was melted by his father.

He’s working from nothing but a _thread_ of his soul, so he calcifies the Stone’s screaming souls into a decent skeleton and he stabs and stitches his muscles and tendons together, then pull the skin taut over.

It’s more arduous this time because Greed is aware of every soul who knits his body whole. Though he knows that the power is beginning to wane by the time he’s finished his physical appearance, he still wants it.

He wants every bit of that Philosopher’s Stone because he wants to _live_ , and damned if he doesn’t take all of it.

Something salty, no, _metallic_ fills his mouth. Good, he’s got both blood and functional taste buds. Spit it out to the side, apologize for the mess later.

He becomes aware of hands-- _hands, at last_ \-- and he pushes himself up from the flower-strewn concrete and arches his back, cracking his neck with a loud, satisfying groan. He can feel the pins and needles in his fingers and toes, and he runs a shaky hand over his face. Eyes, nose, chin, check. Sit back on his haunches. Legs, ankles, feet, check.

The emperor’s heart skips a beat as those pale violet eyes flick up and hold steady, no longer white or blank, but filled with emotion. Agitation. Wariness. Relief. Ling might be looking at a new face, but he would recognize those eyes anywhere. And he can still sense his fused _chi_ somewhere amidst a Stone that now brings life.

He manages one step forward, and then another.

As Ling stands over the rigid figure, he offers his hand to Greed.

They were soul and sin, as they still are, trapped in a mind. When threatened with mortal danger as a god tries to steal their shared power, Greed racks his brain and comes up with the easiest solution: _Lie. Leave._ It seemed so simple; he didn’t think it’d hurt so much.

The Homunculus stares at the outstretched hand.

And he takes it.

* * *

At the emperor’s enthusiastic behest, the staff bring an additional chair to the dining table for the Amestrians’ farewell banquet.

Those who are lucky to cross paths with their liege and his company immediately heeds the newest individual. Tall and broad-shouldered with vaguely Xingese features, his violet eyes ceaselessly roam the surroundings. He often spins round to walk backwards and continue gazing at the ceiling and walls. His _chi_ is odd and powerful, but there is a hint of human within.

Greed rubs a hand over his short hair. “Well,” he says in a voice that is not as ethereal or disembodied, “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a palace before. Not bad, Ling. Not bad at all.”

There are faint transmutation marks along Greed’s forearms. His nails are black and discolored. The Ouroboros tattoo on his left hand returns, however its carmine design is scarred and distorted; it looks like its edges are bleeding or rubbed raw.

Side effects were generally guaranteed from any sort of experiment. His human form for the first time in years is battered and bruised. It will heal, and so will his misgivings.

They eat like a family-- that means telling embarrassing stories and arguing about half-assed memories while passing around shared dishes. The Xingese food are meant to symbolize the full moon after the mid-autumn festival, so they are rich and filling and round-shaped.

Alphonse and May engage in a heated debate about what actually transpired in the Chang territory (“I won the first fight--” “I _let_ you win--”).

Jerso, Zampano, and Greed talk animatedly about chimeras. They talk about Darius and Heinkel and their entertaining lives as a traveling troupe.

Conversation about the Dublith chimeras came up as they were curious but uncomfortable to divulge in state secrets. Greed talks about their life, their joy, their misfortune. He remembers them the only way that feels right: fondly, with heart.

Then he switches tactics and unsuccessfully tries to convince Jerso and Zampano to start a new Devil’s Nest, which the Homunculus would gladly sponsor.

“With what money?”

“I’m sure Ling could spare some of his valuables--”

“I am _not_ sponsoring an illicit gang,” Ling interrupts from across the table.

Greed shrugs, then cracks his knuckles loudly. His pale eyes flick towards Lan Fan and he watches her add a bit of ginger and vinegar to her plate. It’s strange to see her eating at the same table as everyone else; then again, he’s seen her in other vulnerable, familial situations, too.

He drags his chair closer to the unmasked bodyguard, hunkers down in a slouch, and then slams his elbow on the dining table.

“We used to arm wrestle this all the time in the Devil’s Nest,” Greed says, flashing a dangerous, charming smile. “C’mon, Lan Fan. I’ll go easy on you.”

She ignores him.

Everyone watches with wide eyes.

Then Greed abruptly moves his chair on her other side and does the same challenge-- except with his left hand.

“My automail will shred your skin--”

“I can handle a bit of blood. Might stain the tablecloth.” Greed wiggles his fingers playfully. “Aren’t you curious?”

Slowly sighing, Lan Fan she sets down her chopsticks and moves a few plates out of the way. Calmly and unhurriedly, she sets her automail arm on the table.

“I don’t want you to ‘go easy’.” She levels her dark gaze with him. “Give me all you’ve got.”

Ling covers his face, quietly praying that they won’t break the table. Peeking through his fingers, he sees something wondrous, something that chills him to the bone.

Greed’s broken, marred, and restored Ouroboros tattoo on the hand bravely grasping Lan Fan’s stern, caustic automail hand where flesh once was.

A fierce look of concentration descends over their faces.

“3... 2... 1... Go!”

* * *

Just when they imagined their evening was ending, Lan Fan bundles the guests in a car and sends them to the downtown neighborhoods where shopkeepers and the citizens engage in the lively nightlife.

They head to one of the favorite avenues, a local haunt for mooncakes, ginseng sweets, and a wide variety of desserts. While the road is meant for cars, the local law enforcement mostly turns a blind eye. It’s impossible to eradicate popular stomping grounds, especially when they have lasted for centuries.

Lan Fan dons a simple coat over her armor as Ling attempts to wear subtle clothes. There is no guarantee that they can remain incognito in such a high traffic area; with his hair down and a wide smile, there might be the slimmest chance. They head to a well-known desserts shop already crowded with locals and tourists.

May convinces the chimeras to taste a soft, glutinous cake with a tortoise-shell design, pointing out the unique fillings and colors. Shao Mei jumps along the shelves in the shop. She is curious and suspicious of the sweet aromas.

Lan Fan eventually lets the panda rest on her shoulder as she collects a few boxes of flaky pastries which she tells Alphonse are made with screwpine, a plant that does not thrive beyond Xingese borders.

Greed wanders around aimlessly. He jams his hands in his pockets and ignores all odd looks at his attire. Children and teenagers race past as they wave the last lanterns of the mid-autumn festival. The night sky is dark and devoid of stars, but life is here among the people and the noise.

He finds himself in front of a street vendor making crepes, watching them pour batter in a cup with holes. The lace-like design is cooked on a flat hot stove, then quickly removed and folded before they become crispy.

“Two, please,” says Ling, suddenly appearing next to Greed. He pays and then hands one of the crepes to the Homunculus. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

They loiter on the sidewalk, taking quick bites of the dessert. It’s almost too sweet, Greed decides, but he finishes it nonetheless.

“So,” Ling says. “What next?””

“I saw some kids with firecrackers. We can set them off in the street or an alleyway before we head back to the palace.”

The young emperor chuckles. “I meant, what’s next for _you_? Traveling? Staying? You’ll need official papers to cross the border-- then again, I’m sure you could bypass security.”

He doesn’t want to look at Greed. That infamous temper has calmed significant since leaving the flask, however Ling treads carefully on the sensitive subject.

“I would like if you stayed. But really, it’s your choice. You can go with Alphonse and Jerso and Zampano, or explore the rest of Xing. Wherever your heart desires. You could return to Amestris.”

“There’s nothing I want there.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

“I don’t know.” Greed himself is surprised by how nonchalant he sounds. He stretches and yawns, then rests his hands around his neck. “I think it’s okay to not know. Maybe I’ll feel differently tomorrow. I could conquer the world tomorrow. We’ll see.”

The two of them slowly make their way back to the rest, pausing to buy a handful of poppers. They give chase and throw them at their feet as if either ever knew youth. Ling dusts his hands free of cigarette paper and smoke, feeling more certain of his choices and his companions than he’s had in a long while.

Any remaining transmutation marks on his skin have finally faded away.

The alchemist and the princess fall asleep in the backseat, their heads knocked against each other.

Greed helps carry them back to their respective rooms. He silently notes the packed suitcases in Alphonse’s room. Jerso and Zampano retire for the evening, too. They leave early tomorrow to tour the rest of Xing.

Greed thinks, He will see them again, and it warms his heart.

(On the back of a cramped jeepney, squashed between the chimeras, Alphonse opens his traveling journal. May left him one more gift pressed between the pages. He picks up one of the soft, pink flowers reminiscent of her clan and the warrior princess herself.)

And then it is Greed, Ling, and Lan Fan as they walk through the halls. The Homunculus, the Emperor, and the Bodyguard. Same souls in slightly altered bodies.

Greed slings an arm around them. “I’ll make this a good life,” he announces abruptly and glances between the two, like he’s looking for approval. Ling and Lan Fan glance at each other with wry, knowing smiles.

Life at the palace would be far more spontaneous with the Homunculus roaming untethered.

Ling Yao’s fingers brush against unyielding automail.

Then she grasps his hand tightly.

“A good life,” Greed repeats, this time more softly. “That would be enough for me.”

“And for us,” Lan Fan adds.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Though I struggled with writing consistently these past few months, I think it turned out for the better. I took a lot of inspiration from my travels to worldbuild and added them in Xingese cuisine, locations, dress, etc.) that were familiar to me. It felt like paying homage to my culture and overall, I’m very satisfied with how the plot developed!
> 
> Thank you so much for your support, especially if you commented! I would go back and read such lovely comments to fire up some perseverance :’)
> 
> And again, come bother me at [my tumblr](http://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com). Yell with me about FMA:B or writing or whatever comes to mind! Thanks for reading <3


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